Two Faced
by Flyxit
Summary: He thinks she's normal. Innocent. The mark on her left arm says otherwise. HPxOC. UNDER CONSTRUCTION.
1. From the Ashes

**Prologue: From the Ashes**

My heart races.

This is it; the moment I've been waiting for. _Living for_.

My breath catches in my throat as His cold eyes bore into mine, and I suddenly feel certain that He is staring into the depths of my soul. They are the same red eyes that I have stared into countless times before, but there's something very different in them this time.

I nod firmly and exhale steadily, bracing myself.

"I'm ready."

My voice does not tremble. A faint flicker of pride blossoms in my chest and I hold onto it like a lifeline. I will not waver. I've waited for this, prepared for this. I am ready.

He extends a hand slowly, wand balanced delicately between his fingers, his eyes still fixed on mine. My gaze shifts between them and I'm unable to look away. His doubt is clear in the bloodred depths of his challenging stare.

The tip of his wand grazes my extended arm and a jolt runs through me.

A soft, throbbing discomfort spreads through me as the tip of his wand digs into the flesh of my forearm, the epicenter of a steadily growing ripple of pain. And then it intensifies, setting my nerves on fire and peaking at a shuddering agony that flashes up my arm in waves, spreading over my body and taking my heart in its vice grip.

My stomach convulses, my eyes widen, and my knees lock and buckle. It is a pain that shouldn't be possible, exploding behind my eyes in colors brighter than any that I've seen before. My jaws are locked in a silent scream that doesn't ever leave my parted lips. Tears prick at the back of my eyes and it takes every ounce of strength that I have to force them back. I will not cry. Not now, not when there's so much I have to prove.

And then, in the midst of all the pain -

I almost don't notice it. A dark shadow branches from the tip of the wand and seems to burrow under my skin, writhing beneath the surface before snaking out, streams of it branching off in smooth lines and sharp twists.

My jaws snap together as I hold in a scream. The acrid tang of blood seeps into my mouth as my teeth clamp down on my tongue to keep from shrieking. I'm being torn open from the inside, ripped apart. It's the Cruciatus Curse, magnified a million times. Something within me is trying to tear its way out.

It stops, all at once, and the sudden lack of feeling almost hurts more than the pain.

My breath comes in gasps and my vision is blurred. A trickle of blood runs from my lips. My stomach turns over and my bones are stiff and screaming. My head pounds. But worse yet is my arm. It doesn't hurt - it feels numb, and I have to look down to make sure I still have skin and bone and muscle below my elbow. My heart shudders as my eyes catch on the dark figure spread over the skin of my left forearm.

A black inked snake slithers from the mouth of a skull, its jaws open in a hiss and its fangs poised to strike. It moves subtly over my skin, its tongue flicking out and its scaled body shifting. I flex my hand a few times, breathing heavily as I haul myself to my feet. The feeling slowly sets back in until only a lingering whisper of discomfort remains.

And somehow after all that agony, I feel lighter. Like a great weight has been lifted.

As I stare down at the mark that brands my skin, my doubts are suddenly dispelled. For the first time in a long time I feel certain that everything in my life has led up to this moment. For the first time in my life I feel absolutely unafraid.

For the first time in a long time, I feel proud.

I am gone. I am gone, and from my ashes something greater has been born.

I tear my eyes from the new mark - _my_ new mark, I think with a rush of glee - and look up to meet His eye, a smile stretching over my lips. A new power courses through me, making my body tingle and my head feel light.

His shallow red eyes appraise me and he smiles a cold, sneering smile. I bow before Him, shutting my eyes and cherishing this new feeling of power and belonging. My next words are a whisper, but they are clear in the silence of the room. They feel _right_ leaving my lips.

"My Lord."


	2. The Greater Good

**Chapter One: The Greater Good**

Their stares burn holes into my skin. It's like acid, their curiosity, seeping into my bones and hounding me with unasked questions; questions they're all afraid to ask because I'm a giant compared to them. I could squash them with my heel.

The image makes me smile a little.

I turn my head and my eyes meet the innocently searching stare of a blue-eyed first year. He holds my gaze for a moment before his eyes widen and he snaps his head back to huddle with his friends, whispers flying from his lips. A smile twitches at my lips and I hold in an amused chuckle.

A bold one steps forward, hands on her hips. "Who are you?"

Her hair is a bright, obtrusive red, almost orange, and cropped in a no-nonsense cut around her chin. Splotchy freckles spatter over her nose and cheeks, beneath suspiciously narrowed green eyes. Her words are sharp, almost scolding.

"You don't look much like a first year."

A careful smile pulls at my lips as I bite back a sharp reply.

"I'm a sixth year," I answer.

"Where're you from?"

"Britain, mostly."

"Mostly? You don't sound very British," she says loftily. I swallow thickly and blink deliberately, reigning in the sudden desire to hex her something dreadful. What is this, an interrogation?

"Well I am," I reply shortly, turning my gaze back to the castle door. As if on cue, it swings open to reveal a tall witch with stern features clad in dark, velvety robes. The huge, lumbering half-giant that led us from the lake to the small side door of the castle greets her as Professor McGonagall and passes us into her care.

"Come with me," she says firmly before turning sharply and leading the way into the castle. I pause as the first years pass me, wondering for a moment if I was ever as small as they are. It doesn't seem like I ever could have been.

I linger at the back of the crowd as we move into a small chamber. McGonagall rounds on us, her eyes like those of a hawk. She begins to welcome us to Hogwarts, explain the four houses, the Sorting Ceremony, et cetera, and I shift from foot o foot, my mind on the one question that is probably on the mind of every other first year in the room:

Which house?

I know which house I want. Slytherin. I possess all the stereotypical attributes of a Slytherin, and nothing would make me more proud than to follow in the footsteps of so many of my relatives. I belong to Slytherin, heart and soul.

But, as I've learned, some things must be sacrificed for the greater good.

McGonagall exits the chamber, disappearing through a door that presumably leads to the Great Hall, where the other students and staff await the Sorting. The quiet that had filled the room during the witch's address dissolves into nervous chatter. The redheaded first year - the one that questioned me earlier - begins a long, loud speech denoting her family's sorting history at Hogwarts.

"_I _just hope I get into _Ravenclaw_," she says, looking around at the other first years around her, who are listening with the sort of wary attention that young people pay others their age that seem to already know exactly what they want and who they are. "Practically everyone on my mother's side of the family was sorted there, you know. Lately we've been thinking that I'll end up there, as well."

"Well you're in for a shock," I mutter, barely loud enough for the obnoxious ginger to hear, just as McGonagall reappears with orders for us to follow her. The girl looks up at me with a resentful, questioning stare as she slips in front of me in line.

"Ravenclaw's for _intelligent_ people," I hiss from behind her as we enter the hall, watching with smug satisfaction as her face flushes with anger and embarrassment.

Inside the Great Hall, a murmur ripples through the students seated at the four long tables. I look up but immediately wish I hadn't. Hundreds of pairs of eyes meet mine, clouded with curiosity and confusion. I catch a few ribbons of whispers - "_she doesn't look like a first year..._" - and I look down, fighting the smirk that threatens. Thank Merlin I don't look like a first year.

The first years and I form a line between two house tables - Gryffindor and Slytherin, from the looks of their banners. My eyes trail down the table under the scarlet and gold streamers and I have to struggle to keep the disgust from showing on my face.

I search for one face in particular, one I've never seen in person but have heard so much about. I've seen the pictures printed page after page on countless issues of the Daily Prophet, but I've yet to see the face for myself, in the flesh, and curiosity burns within me.

Disappointment sinks within me when I realized he isn't there. Where could he be? Has he not come to Hogwarts this year? Is the threat of the Dark Lord so imminent and terrifying that he's lost that _courage_ he's so famous for?

Perhaps he isn't as stupid as I thought.

My head turns, this time to survey the table to my left. The Slytherins eye me carefully, calculatingly, sizing me up. In the eyes of some, I catch a spark of recognition. I meet their gazes slowly, individually, tension building inside my mind with each passing face - Theodore Nott, Grosimer Avery, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, and -

My heart nearly stops.

_There - there he is._

His eyes are already on me, narrowed in suspicion and surprise, clouded with confusion, and darkened with anger. No, not just anger - his grey-blue eyes are stormy with a distinct, burning fury that hits me like a physical blow.

I tear my gaze from his just as we stop before a three-legged stool, upon which a scraggly, ancient-looking hat sits. Its mouth, a rip in the brim, opens, and and from its frayed cloth lips flies a song, after which McGonagall announces that we're to wait for our name to be called, then sit on the stool to be sorted.

My current name will be towards the end of the list, so I use the idle time to mentally run through the plan again.

Step one: Get sorted to Gryffindor.

It's an easy enough task, in theory. The Sorting Hat supposedly takes requests, right? It will, undoubtedly, suggest Slytherin. Refusing will be difficult, to say the least. Every part of me belongs in Hogwarts' most cunning house.

Sorting goes by much more quickly than expected, and after last first year has been sent to his designated house, an old man at the head staff table stands and flares his arms out grandly. The hall immediately falls silent and the air prickles with confusion, the same thoughts reverberating throughout the room: _Who's that girl still standing there? Is she going to be sorted? __Is she new?__  
><em>

"Tonight I have the pleasure of announcing one more addition to our school; a very special student. I'd like you all to welcome our first transfer student in over seventy years: the young miss Remy Turner, a new sixth year."

Heads swivel to stare me down and I almost flush in discomfort. McGonagall gestures for me to step forward, lifting the hat in her hands and lowering it onto my head as soon as I'm seated. The hat seems to shift, as if trying to get its bearings. After a moment of hesitation, it speaks.

"What have we here?" it rumbles softly. "Oh, very intelligent. Very focused, _oh_, yes. Eager to prove yourself. But where to put you, where to put you?"

A small part of me is confused. Why is it taking so long? The answer should be obvious. But the rest of me is too busy wondering if the hat knows _why_ I'm in Hogwarts, and whether or not it'll let the cat out of the bag.

"A cunning mind," the hat continues, "That much is certain. Quick, ambitious, resourceful, a deep rooted fascination with the Dark Arts... and a secret? Oh, yes. A _dreadful_ secret." _  
><em>

I start, my fists clenching and my eyes growing wide.

"You utter even a word of it and I'll turn you to a pile of ashes," I hiss, cursing the hat mentally.

The hat chuckles darkly and smugly replies, "Not my business. My job's to sort... and I know _just_ where to put you." I feel its fabric lips curl into a smile.

_Wait_, I think quickly, willing the hat to listen to me. I force my lips to move with the two words that feel so out of place running through my mind. "Not Slytherin."

"Not Slytherin, eh?" it repeats, sounding almost amused. "You've got all the traits of a Slytherin - it's all right here, in your mind. You would do well there."

The hat's words are so achingly true, and refusing them feels as wrong as anything can feel.

"Gryffindor," I whisper, biting my lip against the discomfort. Everything depends on this sorting. "_Please_. Gryffindor."

"Gryffindor," it muses, seeming to mull it over. "You may have a touch of courage, but - "

"Do as you're told_, hat_!" I hiss under my breath, my eyes igniting with anger and glaring at the brim. The silence that follows sends a shot of nervousness rushing through me. Surely it would honor my request... right? The hat is silent for a while longer before roaring a single world; three syllables that bring me both relief and disgust.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

My wide smile is forced as I hop off the chair, rushing toward the cheering table. They welcome me with open arms, foolishly and unquestioningly letting me past their defenses. I shudder every time my skin comes into contact with theirs, but in spite of the coursing feeling of reproach, I can't help but feel something close to excitement.

I'm halfway there. My left arm tingles.

So far so good, my Lord.


	3. All I Have

**Chapter Two: All I Have**

Two Weeks Ago

He's facing the marble fireplace, His back to me when I step into the room. My heart's beating in my throat.

"My Lord."

My words, though soft, ring out in the silent stone drawing room, empty of everyone but Him and me. They're a whisper but they aren't feeble. They're strong and resolute, but quiet all the same. That's how my voice is - quiet. Rough and deep and quiet.

He doesn't turn, just keeps facing the fire. Something about that, the lack of acknowledgment, irritates me, but I wish it wouldn't. The simple gesture - Him not turning around - feels like denial already.

But He can't deny my wish. He just _can't_.

"Aria," He says simply, in that high-pitched, hissing way of His. "You have a request?"

"I do, my Lord," I answer, staring at His black clothed back. He can't say no. He can't.

It takes a few moments for me to gather my courage, to remember what I'm here for. Remember what I'll be losing if he denies my request. I take a few small steps forward, easing out of the doorway, and the light from the room spills onto my dark robes. I squint and flinch, not used to the brightness. I have always rather liked the dark. The world looks its best when you can't see it.

"I want to go in with him, my Lord," I say finally, releasing it all like a sigh. He still doesn't move. He watches the flames leap and crack in the fireplace, and it's as if I haven't even spoken. The only acknowledgment taht I get is the slight stirring of the great snake at His feet. Nagini's head bobs up, her cold eye locking with mine before she lowers herself to the floor once again, hissing. Am I imagining the shake of her head just before her jaws touch the tiled floor? Is His snake denying me, too?

Frustration builds inside me as the minutes tick by.

He can't say no.

He _can't_.

Can He?

"Why does it matter to you, Aria?" He rasps, finally breaking the uneasy silence. "Why does he matter?"

I've been asking myself the same question for the last six weeks.

I struggle with my words, like they can't get into the proper order in my head, like something's scrambling them in my brain. When I finally get them out, they sound strangled and incomplete.

"He's - he's all I have, my Lord."

_All I have_. So He can't say no.

"You have _us_," He sneers, sounding bitterly mocking as He turns away from the fireplace. His tone and the way His eyes regard me should be enough of a warning for me to back down, to try a different approach, but I ignore the alarms that ring out in my head and continue.

"It's different."

"What," He titters, a cruel smile stretching over his thin lips. Something new flashes in his words. His words are a sneer. "Aren't we enough for you? Our little family?"

I realize my mistake too late. And I backpedal.

"You misunderstand me, my Lord, I only meant - "

He raises a hand; a single hand that says more than a thousand bellowed words. I feel something calm beneath the surface, and the tension in the room slowly slackens. My shoulders are still stiff and my heart is still thumping in my throat, but there's a little less pressure in my chest and a little less constriction in my lungs.

He can't say no.

"Very well," He hisses, and Nagini mimics the action, her tongue flicking out of her mouth menacingly. "Go. Tell Severus. He will make the arrangements."

"Thank you, my Lord," I murmur, bowing lower than I ever have in my life. My shoulders unclench and my heart sinks back down to its place in the cage of my ribs. I feel a thousand pounds lighter.

I know better than to leave right away - I made that mistake once before. Standing rigidly under His piercing gaze, a flush of warmth edged with an icy chill races through me.

Despite the shiver of fear that snakes down my spine, I can't help but feel _good_ around Him. It's a whisper of the old flame that used to burn inside of me, when I first became a Death Eater, looking down upon my Dark Mark, the reminder burned into my flesh that said that I was _worth it_. That I was useful. That I was _powerful_. That coursing thrill has since faded, only sometimes reawakened on high-adrenaline missions or duels, or at times like these, when I'm alone with the Dark Lord and He looks at me like He is now, with His critical eyes surveying me and trying to see if I'm still worth it - if I'm still powerful.

Something clears in his eyes and he dismisses me with a curt wave of his hand. The warmth of validation burns within me as I back out of the room, my eyes watering with relief.

He said yes.

* * *

><p>"It has been arranged," drawls the velvety voice of Severus Snape. In that moment, I can swear it's the voice of the angels.<p>

We sit in a darkened corner of an empty pub in Knockturn Alley, the closest ears to hear us being the rats that scurry overhead on the boughs and the pub's owner, who is sweeping the floor across the room. He pays us no mind; shadier characters than us have done their business here, so our dark cloaks and need for shadows are nothing out of the ordinary. And, considering the weight of the times, he knows better than to eavesdrop.

"Thank you, Severus," I breathe, shutting my eyes briefly in relief.

"You will need to assume a new identity," he continues coolly, as if I haven't spoken. My eyes narrow slightly. So that's the catch.

"But - "

"The Desere family name is too widely known in the wizarding world as a dark family. You'd be suspected of dark ties before you so much as stepped foot in the castle."

I sigh and nod reluctantly for him to go on. He eyes me carefully.

"Your name is Remy Turner. You born in southern England on December 13, 1980. Your parents are muggles - Cassandra and Humphrey Turner, who is a watch repairman. They hired a witch to teach you magic at home until she fell ill this past summer, which is the cause for your transfer to Hogwarts. You will stick by this information as if your life depends upon it - which it does. Am I clear?"

Nodding hesitantly, I commit the description to memory.

The Deseres are, indeed, a famously dark family - and proudly so. To think that I'll be posing as a mudblood... I can feel my mother rolling over in her grave.

"You will stay out of trouble," Severus continues silkily, his eyes narrowing slightly. "_Out_ of quidditch. _Out_ of detention. _Out_ of anything that will turn heads or justify suspicion."

"Thank you, Severus," I say again with a small smile, to which I receive no response.

"And - Severus?" I call just as he's about to leave, then remember where we are and look to ensure that the bartender hasn't heard me. He only continues sweeping, still ignoring us. Severus turns slightly and inclines his head to show that he's listening. "Don't say a word of this to Draco just yet, mind? I'd like to do it myself."

He flourishes his cloak and exits the shoddy pub, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

_Remy Turner_.

What the hell sort of name is _Remy_? A boy's name if I've ever heard one. And a_ mudblood_? I shudder. But I suppose Severus couldn't have made me a pureblood - all respectable purebloods are familiar with all other respectable purebloods, so the completely fabricated character Remy Turner couldn't have passed as one. But surely a half-blood would have been safe?

How did I get into this, trading in a favor from the Dark Lord? Putting on a new identity? Shedding my pure pedigree and donning the filthy family tree of a muggle born?

It seems like ages ago that the problem arose.

I heard the news first from Yaxley the day before yesterday - he always had a problem with Lucius, so any misfortune of the Malfoys was a thing of brilliance in his eyes. He was much more subtle about it, his glee at the news, when he told me, but I could see it in his eyes, in the way they glinted with glee. I heard it next from Antonin Dolohov, who at least had the decency to sound a bit pitying. I didn't want to believe it, of course, so I went to Narcissa.

* * *

><p><span>Two Days Earlier<span>

I tumble from the fireplace, coughing the floo powder from my lungs and shaking off the dizzying feeling of traveling through the Floo Network.

"Is it true? Is he - " I cut off, taking in my surroundings, frozen in shock. For the first time in my life, I witness the Malfoy mansion in complete disarray.

A vase lays broken on the floor and the wall above its chipped and shattered pieces is dented, suggesting that the china was hurled across the room. A loveseat is overturned and a reading lamp leans precariously against a wall diagonally, its light bulb flickering like a dying firefly trapped in a jar. The other fineries in the room are splayed across the floor. A broken but still beautiful woman sits on another loveseat in the middle of the disaster area, her skirt and blouse ensemble disheveled and her usually carefully pinned hair sticks out in places.

Narcissa looks up, startled, and dissolves into a fit of tearful sobs.

"Oh - Aria!" she cries, standing unsteadily and flinging herself into my arms. I stand rigidly, disbelief written over my features. Never in my life have I seen Narcissa Malfoy so distraught, not even after the capture and arrest of her husband.

"So it's true, then?" I whisper into her hair, patting her on the back with a twinge of awkwardness. She explodes with another gasping sob and all but collapses into me. I struggle against her, leading her slowly to the white couch that looks about as uncomfortable as it does expensive. Narcissa nods feebly against my shoulder, her tears sliding down my neck and into the high collar of my robe.

"It's - It's a _suicide mission_!" she weeps, "He's p-punishing Lucius for what happened at the M-Min-Ministry! It's not f-fair, it's not - " The rest of her sentence is swallowed by another wave of fresh tears and anguish.

I feel knocked breathless, like someone's stolen the air from my lungs. I feel as though someone's pushed me over the edge of a tall building, and the air's rushing by me but I can't take any of it in, so all that's left is the rasping of my empty breaths and the howl of the wind passing around me, and the ground's coming up below me but my vision's darkening so I can't see it and I don't know when it'll come but I know that when it does I'll go _splat_.

But in a way, ending with a _splat_ would be so much easier. It would be simple - the ground comes up to meet me and I'm dead. The end. But here... well, _splat_ can mean so many different things here.

Draco can fail. He can get caught. He'll be imprisoned. In Azkaban. With the Dementors. And be sentenced to death.

Or he can fail. And not get caught. And the Dark Lord will kill him. And Narcissa. And torture and humiliate them first.

The only way he can get out of his alive is if he doesn't fail - if he defies all odds and manages to assassinate one of the greatest wizards of modern times, _and_ find a way to lead the Death Eaters onto the grounds of Hogwarts, one of the most heavily protected places in the wizarding world. If he can do that, he can get through this.

My heart sinks in my chest. I doubt even the most skilled Death Eater could manage such a feat.

"I've asked Severus to help him," Narcissa hiccups, bringing me back down from my thoughts. She covers her mouth with a delicate hand, seeming to recover some of her dignity. Once again she is Narcissa Malfoy - prim, proper, perfect, and pureblooded. The Four 'P's of Success.

"He made the Unbreakable Vow," she continues, adjusting her blouse. "Should Draco fail, Severus will setp in and complete the task for him."

The weight on my chest lightens, but only fractionally. "Does the Dark Lord know?"

"I suppose He must," Narcissa shrugs a little helplessly. "Bella was with me."

Of course He must, if _Bellatrix Lestrange_ was there. Her name strikes cords of dislike within me, especially when spoken with such a fond tone. How anyone can stand that insane wench is beyond me.

"I-I'll go to Hogwarts with him," I murmur, straightening a little in my seat. She looks up at me as if I'm a miracle sent from Merlin himself. Her eyes widen, shimmering with a newfound, however small, sliver of hope.

"Really?" she says breathlessly, "You would do that? Oh _thank you_, Aria. It would mean the world to me."

_I'm not doing it for you_.

* * *

><p>Once Severus is gone, I take my leave as well, stepping into the stone fireplace of the pub, floo powder in hand. A few seconds later, I stumble from the marble fireplace into the drawing room of the Desere Mansion.<p>

The house is vacant, bar myself and the beady-eyed spiders that have taken refuse in the dark corners of my home. Accompanied by a flask of firewhiskey, I make my way to my darkened bedroom, my thoughts on my new identity.

I'm to become an entirely new person.

A new name, a new past, a new personality... I reluctantly realize that a small part of me is looking forward to it. It's a chance to start over, even for only a few months, as a new person. A more innocent one.

But even as the thought crosses my mind, I push it away. Because after a few seconds, those four words are twisted around in my brain.

A more innocent person, yes - but a weaker one.


	4. Something Like Torture

Hello there :) Sorry for not posting in, like, a week. I forgot to mention last chapter that I was going to be up north visiting relatives (who don't have wifi connection at their house. Or cell reception. What's up with that? Crazy old people...). I was planning on just writing the next few chapters while I was up there... but I forgot to bring the sixth HP book. Sooo... yeah. Sorry.

Just so you're aware: Writing this chapter was like pulling my teeth out with rusty pliers. Seriously, it was freaking hard. So I'm sorry if this is really crappy. There'll be a lot more action next chapter ;)

Disclaimer: I own only Ari/Aria Desere/Remy Turner. Everything else is property of the fantastical J.K. Rowling (I watched the movie about her the other day! It was crazy good! Did you know that she was a single mother on wellfare? She went from being barely able to pay the rent to one of the richest women in Britain. I've got the biggest girl crush on that woman). Anyway, the Harry/Hermione/Ron dialogue as well as Dumbledore's speech is taken directly from the book. So yeah.

Review! Enjoy! Have a nice day!

* * *

><p>"<em>Concentrated power has always been the enemy of liberty." —Ronald Reagan<em>.

**Two-Faced [Harry Potter] Chapter Three: Revulsion**

_Smile, Ari. Smile._

This becomes my mantra during the start-of-term banquet.

_Smile_ when I reluctantly take my seat at the Gryffindor table.

_Smile_ when I hide a shudder and shake the hands of blood traitors and mudbloods alike.

_Smile_ when I repeatedly feel the urge to release the fury of Dark Magic on the entire table.

_Smile, Ari._

Smile_._

I hold in a roll of my eyes as Lavender Brown spills a summary of her entire summer, her face lit up animatedly as she recounts her trip to Paris and all of the _absolutely gorg_ French boys that were _all over_ her. I nod languidly, noting that Brown will be a go-to for gossip (though that's about all she'll be good for), and nibble absentmindedly on a roll. I keep one ear on the ditz's story and use the other to eavesdrop on other conversations around the table.

One catches my eye (or ear).

"Where _is_ he? He's—Honestly, Ronald! Can't you stop thinking about food for one second? Your best friend is missing and all you've done is stuff yourself!"

It's that mudblood, Hermione Granger, speaking exasperatedly to Ron Weasley, who bows his head sheepishly. I completely abandon any attempt to make it seem like I'm actually listening to Lavender's incessant rambling, turning my full attention to the pair. Lavender looks a bit affronted, and casts me an offended look before turning to the girl on the other side of her.

"Well what—" Weasley starts to retort, but stops and looks to the door. "Oi! There he is!"

My head snaps to the door. Sure enough, Harry Potter is practically sprinting towards the Gryffindor table, his face covered in blood and annoyance.

My eyes narrow.

Suspicion pricks at the back of my neck, and I turn to the Slytherin has seemed to recover from his shock of seeing me, and is acting out what appears to be a nose breaking and blood spattering.

I bite my lip to hold in a smirk.

Potter's finally gotten what he deserves, has he?

"Where've you—blimey, what've you done to your face?" Weasley says loudly whenPotter joins them, eyeing the blood warily. Potter avoids his friend's eyes, swooping instead for a spoon.

"Why, what's wrong with it?" he asks, looking into his distorted reflection on the back of the spoon.

"You're covered in blood!" exclaims Granger, reaching for her wand. "Come here – Tergeo!"

His face now clean of blood, Potter wriggles his nose. "Thanks. How's my nose looking?"

"Normal," Granger replies, a little anxiously, "Why shouldn't it? Harry, what happened? We've been terrified!"

I lean forward slightly, pretending to reach for another roll.

"I'll tell you later," he says curtly, looking around. The entire left half of the table has leaned forward to catch a bit of the conversation, their weak attempts at disguising their eavesdropping blatantly transparent.

"But—" protests Mudblood, but stops abruptly at his firm glare.

"Not now, Hermione."

The faces around the Gryffindor table flash with disappointment, and everyone returns to the conversations they'd been engaged in before the 'Chosen One' entered the Hall.

That is, everyone except me.

"You missed the sorting, anyway," Granger sighs, watching Weasley shove a large chocolate gateau into his mouth with an expression of faint disgust.

"Hat say anything interesting?" asks Potter, though he clearly doesn't care about the answer. I look down quickly as Mudblood's eyes dart my way before returning to her friend.

"More of the same, really… advising us all to unite in the face of our enemies, you know. There's a new student — sixth year transfer."

"A _transfer_?" Potter spits, almost dropping his treacle tart. "Is that even allowed?"

"Apparently," Granger replies tartly, pursing her lips. "_I_ haven't heard of it happening before now."

"Well, who is it?"

She looks over at me again, and I'm careful to keep my head down. I can feel a few more pairs of eyes on me, taking me in cautiously.

"With the dark hair, just there, next to Lavender."

I look up just as Potter does, letting my eyes lock with a pair of green irises that are made even brighter by the circular wire glasses framing them. They're alight with curiosity, confusion.

So this is the famous _Chosen One_, the boy that's supposed to take down the Dark Lord.

Disgust rises in my throat in the form of bile, and it takes all my willpower to keep from sneering at the boy. _This_ is Harry Potter? This shrimp of a boy? He's got about the same chance of taking down the Dark Lord as I've got in becoming a muggle rights activist.

My eyes trail upwards, grazing over his forehead, searching for his mark. The mark of his importance, his power over the Dark Lord, the source of all the rumors.

There — slightly to the left, hidden partially by a strand of dark hair: a light scar in the shape of a lightning bolt. The scar that started it all. A shock of pain suddenly stabs at my left arm, and I can feel the snake crawl uncomfortably on my skin. It's as if the Dark Mark can sense the presence of its greatest boy enemy.

Then I realize that I'm staring.

_Smile, Ari._

I attempt a shy smile and offer an awkward wave, which he returns just as awkwardly.

"Dumbledore mention Voldemort at all?" he asks Granger, still looking at me. I hold his eyes, throwing curses at him mentally. A smile — an _real_ smile — quirks at my lips as I imagine blasting him across the room, his body flailing and writhing from the pain of the Cruciatus Curse, his eyes going blank with the flash of green that flies from my wand…

"Not yet, but he always saves his proper speech for after the feast, doesn't he? It can't be long now. He only mentioned the transfer student."

He nods a little absently, reaching for another treacle tart.

They talk a while about Professor Snape and Professor Hagrid; nothing that interests me, so I tune out. Lavender is still chattering away about her summer to the girl to her left, turned fully away from me as if trying to spite me for ignoring her. I roll my eyes, turning back to the Golden Trio.

Potter's attention has turned to the Slytherin table, his eyes narrowed at Draco miming the shattering of a nose. The students around him applaud and laugh jeeringly, casting mocking looks at Potter. I can't help but laugh at the murderous look glinting in Potter's eyes.

As if _he_ could take on a Death Eater.

Three, actually, if you count Severus and me.

He talks to Granger and Weasley about more boring things until Dumbledore stands at the staff table, raising a hand to silence the chatter around the Hall.

"The very best of evenings to you!" Dumbledore smiles, flaring his arms to the sides grandly.

Gasps and whispers flood the Hall at the sight of his blackened and charred right hand. My eyes narrow (they seem to be doing that a lot tonight), my sights fixing on the ornate gold ring adorning his right ring finger.

It's tainted with Dark Magic. It has to be.

"Nothing to worry about," he says, shaking his sleeve to cover the injury. "No… to our new students, welcome, to our old students, welcome back! Another year full of magical education awaits you…"

I tune out after that, propping my head up on a bent arm and sighing heavily.

Who knew an infiltration mission into _Hogwarts_ would be so dull?

Perhaps mother and father were right about this place…

My attention drifts to the Slytherin table, and I can't stop my eyes from picking one student out of the crowd. It feels like there's a magnet, drawing my eyes to him.

He's there, sitting between Blaise Zabini and Gregory Goyle, levitating a fork with his wand, his expression on of careless disinterest, as if Dumbledore's words don't apply to him.

And _Merlin_, he's beautiful.

He looks older than when I last saw him. His hair's shorter than I remember, but still that platinum blond, and his face is thinner. His eyes are still the same. Light grey, flecked with bits of gold and blue and green and filled with cockiness, arrogance, and, when his eyes catch on mine, anger.

This is the boy that's to kill Albus Dumbledore. This beautiful boy.

"Now, as everybody in this Hall knows, Lord Voldemort and his followers are once more at large and gaining in strength."

Draco's mask of boredom doesn't change as the fork cartwheels in the air. I can't hold back the smirk that threatens. He's still got that arrogance.

I notice Potter staring at Draco, suspicion clouding his eyes. Does he know? Draco's certainly not being discrete about it. And it's not unlike Draco to be waving his Dark Mark around, flaunting it as a mark of courage and power, so it wouldn't be surprising if Potter has heard something about it.

I realize too late that Potter's turned his attention to me. He watches me with something I can't place — suspicion? Not, not quite. Just curiosity. Safe curiosity.

_Smile, Ari. Smile._

I throw a quick grin at him before turning back to Dumbledore, lacing my fingers together and resting my chin atop them, pretending to drink in the Headmaster's words with the relish and excitement of a first year.

"I cannot emphasize strongly enough how dangerous the present situation is, and how much care each of us at Hogwarts must take to ensure that we remain safe. The castle's magical fortifications have been strengthened over the summer, we are protected in new and more powerful ways, but we must still guard scrupulously against carelessness on the part of any student or member of staff."

I can't help the twinge of amusement and satisfaction that arises at Dumbledore's words of _wisdom_.

The Death Eaters are right. Albus Dumbledore is bloody batty.

With all his _updated security_, Dumbledore's still got three Death Eaters in his midst. One of them is seated to his right, scowling down at the students, another sitting only a few seats away from the 'Chosen One', and the last is plotting to kill him.

What a laugh.

"I implore you, should you notice anything strange or suspicious within or outside the castle, to report it to a member of staff immediately."

_Will do._

"I trust you to conduct yourselves, always, with the utmost regard for your own and others' safety."

_Yes, sir._

"But now, your beds await, as warm and comfortable as you could possibly wish, and I know that your top priority is to be as well-rested for your lessons tomorrow. Let us therefore say good night. Pip pip!"

With that, everyone stands, stretching their limbs and heading for the door of the Great Hall, fighting a food coma and chattering about the start of the new year, Dumbledore's dead hand, what happened at the Department of Mysteries, and the return of You-Know-Who (as if he didn't 'return' a year and a half ago).

I fall to the back of the crowd, staying near Potter and Weasley who hang back as well. They don't notice me as I linger a few feet away, pretending to yawn and fiddle with the ties of one of my trainers. They're too preoccupied to notice.

"What really happened to your nose?" Weasley asks Potter as the Mudblood leads the first years dutifully out of the Hall and towards the Gryffindor common room, casting Weasley a stern look that says she thinks he should be doing the same.

Potter reveals that he'd hidden on the luggage rack in Draco's compartment to snoop, but got caught. Apparently Draco'd stamped on his face, breaking his nose. It takes all of my strength to keep from laughing, and I make a mental note to give Draco a box of chocolates or something.

"I saw Malfoy miming something to do with a nose," Weasley says, eyeing Potter's nose with interest, as if looking for some evidence of breakage.

"Yeah, well, never mind that. Listen to what he was saying before he found out I was there…"

My ears perk with interest, and I pray that Draco hasn't been revealing anything about his mission, even to other Slytherins with Death Eater connections. If his cover is blown so early on — barely the end of the first day — he'll be punished. Severely.

_Killed_.

I probably will, too. After all, I'm here to 'save him', as Narcissa put it. _How_ I'm to go about doing that is beyond me; Draco knows more about Dumbledore than I do, so he'll be able to think up more crafty ways of assassinating him. But then again, I _am_ more experienced in Dark Magic than he is.

"Git Malfoy kept going on about how he wasn't going to be in Hogwarts next year. Moving on to _bigger and better things_, he said. Voldemort's got him on some big mission."

I almost sigh in relief. So Potter knows — or, at least, suspects — that Draco's a Death Eater. That doesn't really mean anything. No one would believe him if he told them.

_After all,_ I think with a small laugh,_ why would the Dark Lord want a sixteen-year-old in his ranks? _

His face falls when Weasley furrows his eyebrows and replies, "Come on, Harry, he was just showing off for Parkinson… What kind of mission would You-Know-Who have given him?"

A twinge of satisfaction makes my lips quirk into a smirk. Thank you, Ronald Weasley.

It's then that I notice a giant, bulky, hulk of a man heading towards us. Knowing that the boys will stop talking about anything interesting once the half-breed Hagrid arrives, I head for the door, just barely catching a last few words of Harry Potter as I pass through the entrance.

"How d'you know Voldemort doesn't need someone at Hogwarts?"

Smirking, I slip from the Great Hall.

_If only you knew, Potter_.

The rest of the night passes quietly. I'm put in a dorm with four other girls, whose names I don't care enough to remember. They're useless airheads, spending the entire night squealing about _Oh! Isn't it so exciting to be back at Hogwarts!_ and, _Aren't you just _swooning_ over Harry? He's _so_ gorgeous this year! And he fought off He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the Ministry of Magic!_

_Smile, Ari._

_And resist the urge to vomit_.

My revulsion at my dorm mates grows when I overhear a mention of their parents. All three of the girls' parents are muggles holding mundane muggle office jobs. I shudder. A room with not _one_ but _three_ mudbloods?

A fate worse than death, surely.

After a half hour of listening to them giggle and gush, I have to stuff my wand under my pillow to keep myself from cursing them into oblivion.


	5. Tastes Like Guilt

I've been meaning to thank all of the people that reviewed or added me to their favorite authors, stories, and story alert subscriptions, but I keep forgetting... so here it is! A HUGGGEEEEE thanks to the following fantastic people who have made my day(s):

**Twilight Woods, MindHeist, Electric-Aura, MegPotter123, IzzyMarieWhitlock, xxSlytheringirl101xx, starlight starbrite, kristaniella, bbymojo, HaloDestroyer, Haleylynnr1, and last but certainly not least, **

That's all just in order of when it showed up in my email inbox... If I've missed anyone, please message me! Again, GINORMOUS thanks to those people above and everyone that's been reading :)

Disclaimer: Various OCs and the plot of this story are mine. Everything else is JK Rowling's.

I really liked writing this chapter :)

* * *

><p>"<em>Not necessity, not desire—no, the love of power is the demon of men." –Friedrich Nietzsche<em>

**Two-Faced [Harry Potter] Chapter Four: Resentment**

I don't think a lot of people realize just how great it is to be a Death Eater.

Everyone (non-Death Eaters, that is) makes us out to be spineless murderers, cowering at the feet of our master. They seem to think that we're ruled by fear and cowardly contempt for the weak, and that we're only allied with the Dark Lord because it means we're 'safe'. That's only true for pathetic lumps like Wormtail.

But the rest of us, the _real_ Death Eaters, are really ruled by lust. Lust for power. _That's_ what drives us. Not fear, not sadism. _Power_.

The power to be able to elude the Ministry of Magic, for example.

The power to be able to strike fear into the hearts of even the most powerful wizards and witches, just by pulling up our left sleeves.

The power to cast the Killing Curse whenever we want without feeling guilty or any of those other moral consequences.

It's exactly that last bit that I'm sorely missing as I sit at the Gryffindor table.

My hand twitches towards my wand with every word that one of my dorm mates (whose name is, I found out last night, Audra Fallington) utters. As she babbles on about Dean Thomas and how _dreamy_ he's gotten, I can't help but wonder if I even _look_ like I care. Is there _anything_ about my expression that makes this poor mudblood think that I share her lust for Dean Thomas?

"Yeah, he's brilliant," I mutter, tapping my foot and looking around the Great Hall. If she catches my dry sarcasm, she doesn't acknowledge it.

"I heard he fancies that Ginny Weasley girl," she continues, her face screwing up as if she's tasted something terrible. "A lot of boys do. _I_ don't see the appeal. I mean, she's got no class! I heard she bat-bogied Zacharias on the train! It's got to be because of her family that she's like this; living with all those brothers has made her crude. _Oh_, but those twins she's got, the ones that opened up the joke shop? Dreamy, they are. And I always say that they're better when they come in pairs, anyway. Don't you agree, Rem?"

"Yeah, they're just brilliant," I repeat with a discrete roll of my eyes, resisting the urge to clock her when I hear the nickname she's given me. _Rem_. As if _Remy_ isn't short enough. Or is four letters too long for her? My hand clenches tightly around my wand as I take another pass around the Hall.

Where the hell is Potter?

"Hey," I nudge Audra a bit to snap her out of her _Oh, that Seamus kid's alright too, I guess. Not quite as nice a catch as Dean, but I reckon he's good in the sack…_ "Have you seen Pott—Harry?"

Her expression changes to one of knowing. Her lips curl with a sly smile, and she pokes me in the ribs. "Oooh, fancy _him_, do you? Yeah, I've had my turn on _that_ carousel… 'S alright, your secrets safe with me!"

"Yeah thanks," I say impatiently, "But have you seen him?"

"No, not since this morning in the common room. But _oh_, he's _matured_ this summer," she continues, her voice dropping to almost a purr. "And after what happened in the Ministry… well, I suppose he's going to be a big catch this year. Every girl's to be after him, I reckon. You're going to have some competition, Rem. 'S alright, though. You'll do fine because you're pretty and all. I just hope you're smart. I think Harry likes _intellectual_ girls – you know, the witty ones."

I swallow a retort of "Well, that rules _you_ out," and instead nod absently, not even bothering to correct her assumption. If she wants to think I want to get with Potter, that's perfectly fine with me. It'll make any further questions I ask unsuspicious.

"Yeah?" I hum, still watching the door to the Hall. "Do you know if he... fancies anyone?"

"_Well_," she starts with a huff, drawing a great breath. I shut my eyes in exasperation, settling in for a _long_ story. "See, I heard that in fourth year he fancied Cho Chang – she's a Ravenclaw – but _she_ fancied Cedric Diggory – You-Know-Who killed him – and so Harry went with Parvati – you met her, right? I don't like her, personally. She's with Lavender Brown too much, and Merlin knows that girl's a dreadful gossip."

I hold back a snort. Oh, the hypocrisy.

"And _then_," she goes on, "Well, _rumor has it_ that he and Cho had a thing in fifth year… but, you know, we can't really tell for certain since they don't seem to be speaking now. _I've_ always suspected that he fancies Hermione Granger – she's the girl prefect for our house, the one with the bushy hair? I don't suppose you've met her, your being a transfer and all, but you'll know her when you see her.

"Between you and me," she leans forward conspiratorially, "I've never really liked her. A bit uppity, if you know what I mean. Brownnoser and all. How she managed to get Viktor Krum in fourth year is beyond me. I suppose he thought her pretty; I can't think of why anyone would want her for her _personality_."

For once, I agree with my dorm mate.

"Oi! Look, there's Harry now," she exclaims, pointing to the door.

I look up quickly, ignoring Audra's smirk as she attributes my eagerness to my fancying him. Sure enough, Potter and his band of faithful minions are headed towards us, taking their seats just a few students away, across the table. They're talking urgently about something, their heads pressed close together as if discussing something confidential.

Mentally cursing my bad hearing, I reach for the plate of bacon across the table, catching only a few bits of the conversation.

"… can't really think we'd continue Care of Magical Creatures!" Granger is saying, looking frustrated. "I mean, when has any of us expressed… you know… any enthusiasm?"

Relief crashes over me as I realize that they're talking about their dropping Care of Magical Creatures – nothing important (like, say, Draco's mission or the Dark Lord). But my relief is short-lived, as Audra jabs me in the arm.

"Well?" she hisses, shooting a meaningful look first at me, then in Potter's direction. "Are you going to talk to him or just stare and drool?"

"I-I was not _drooling_!" I exclaim, my annoyance spiking. Thinking that I fancy him is fine, but _drooling_ over him? Even I have to admit that he's not bad looking, but he's not drool-worthy, either. And the fact that he's _Harry Potter_, one of the Dark Lord's biggest enemies, completely cancels out any attractiveness he's got.

"Mmhmm," she hums disbelievingly, "_Sure_ you weren't. Just go talk to him! He's not going to hex your or anything! Honestly, you're the _transfer _student, the first one we've had in – well, in ever! He's _got _to be curious about you! He's probably _dying _to know what you're like! You're got a leg up on all the other girls here; you've got an air of… of… _mystery_. _C'mon_, what could it hurt, Rem?"

My pride?

My left forearm?

"But—oh, alright!" I relent, pushing away from the table and ignoring my dorm mate's self-satisfied smirk. I walk slowly around the table, making my way to Potter with small, deliberate steps. Buying some time.

_Cheerful_.

That's the personality I'll go by, when I introduce myself to Potter and for the rest of the mission. Cheerful and bright, smiley and optimistic. The exact _opposite_ of a Death Eater.

I stop behind the Golden Trio, drawing in a steadying breath and clearing my throat. Their heads swivel quickly, all three pairs of eyes regarding me with curiosity. Potter winces suddenly, his hand flashing up to touch the scar on his forehead, his brows furrowing.

The Dark Mark pulses with a distinct, throbbing pain. I force my left hand to remain relaxed and not ball up into a fist, and pull the negative emotions from my face.

_Smile, Ari. _

I plaster on a bright, buoyant grin and introduce myself. "Hi, I'm Remy. You're… Harry, right?"

"Erm—yeah," he says slowly, seeming to take me in, a trace of suspicion clouding his green eyes. I turn to Granger, cocking an eyebrow and asking after her, as well.

"Hermione. Hermione Granger," Mudblood states, extending a hand. I take it and return her handshake without hesitation, though my blood – my _pure_ blood – crawls. I release her hand as quickly as possible, wiping away the grimace that threatens to spill onto my face. I wonder briefly if dirty blood can transfer through skin contact.

"And you are...?" I ask as if I don't know, turning to the redhead.

"Ron," he says simply, looking a bit dumbstruck. He doesn't look like a very intelligent guy.

"You're the transfer, then?" Potter says, and I'm grateful to turn my attention back to him. If he wasn't an enemy of both me and the Dark Lord, I think I'd hate Potter the least. Out of the group of misfits, his personality is the least like nails on chalkboard.

But, as he _is_ an enemy of both myself and the Dark Lord, I hate every strand of messy, dark hair on his pasty, scarred head.

"Yes," I laugh, cocking my head to the side and biting my lip. "I was taught from home, but the witch that was schooling me… er – passed this summer. So my parents sent me here. I'm excited, of course. Dumbledore's a legend."

The words feel like vinegar in my mouth.

But it's true, of course – Dimwit Dumbledore _is_ a legend. But to say it like I just have, like he's some sort of genius, feels all wrong. Dumbledore isn't a genius. He's just a senile old man who should've dropped dead a long time ago. He may be regarded as one of the most brilliant wizards of our age, but the fact that he's gone several _years_ without noticing that his right-hand man is really a Death Eater, and that one of his own _students_ is plotting to kill him, is just sad.

Potter's face seems to brighten.

"Yeah, yeah, he is," he agrees with a grin and a fierce nod.

_Merlin,_ I think with a trace of disgust_, he _worships_ that old bat._

My left arm aches, feeling like there's something pulling the skin of my forearm away from the bone. I decide that simply introducing myself to the Trio will be enough for now; after all, it's only the first day. I'll have plenty more time to let afriendship blossom.

"Anyway, I think we're to be getting our timetables soon… I guess I'd better head back. Nice meeting you, Harry. Ron, Hermione," I nod to each of them in turn, then, before they can reply, turn on my heel and head quickly back to Audra, who eyes me smugly.

"See? I _told_ you it wouldn't be that bad," she says when I slide in next to her.

"Yeah, yeah," I laugh, rolling my eyes playfully and biting back a stream of curses.

* * *

><p>It's only once I enter my first classroom that I realize that, because I'm taking first period Ancient Runes, I'll be in the class with Mudblood. She's already sitting in a desk, her books out and a quill in hand, the point hovering over a piece of parchment, ready for notes. I try to hurry to a seat at the back of the class to avoid being seen by her, but it's already too late. She's spotted me. She smiles brightly in my direction, waving and beckoning me over.<p>

With that, my entire day is ruined.

* * *

><p>After Runes, Granger and I meet the other two-thirds of the Golden Trio outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, the two of them mourning the end of their free period. Mudblood and I are both buried under towers of books and papers and waiting impatiently for the class to open.<p>

"We got so much homework for Runes," she says, worry coloring her voice as she eyes the books stacked in her arms. "A fifteen-inch essay, two translations, and I've got to read these by Wednesday!"

"Shame," Ron yawns, and she sends him a withering look.

"You wait, I bet Snape gives us loads."

The classroom door opens just as she speaks, and it takes all my strength not to smile with relief at the face that appears in the doorway. Severus Snape steps into the corridor, and silence falls over the cue almost immediately. I chuckle at the effect he's got on the students.

"Inside," he orders, and we all file into the classroom. There are a few gasps as the students take in their surroundings.

The curtains have been drawn, and the room is lit by candles that hover in the air. Gruesome pictures have been posted to the walls, depicting people with contorted body parts cowering and convulsing, obviously in pain.

I'm the last one in, and throw a smirk at Severus, to which he replies with his usual flat glare.

Defense passes quickly, and it's comforting to have another experienced Death Eater in the room instead of being surrounded only by blood traitors and mudbloods and Harry Potter. I don't interact much with anyone but my partner, an idiot by the name of Katherine (pronounced _Kuhthreen_, as she told me stiffly) who can barely tell her shoe from her face, and exchange only a few smiles with Potter, Granger, and Weasley. Draco ignores me altogether during the lesson, avoiding all eye contact.

When Potter receives a detention for getting into a spat with Severus, I can't help but laugh. Stupid boy deserves it, giving his professor cheek like that.

I hang back at the end of class, slowly packing up my books. When I'm certain it's empty, I approach Severus's desk, leaning against it with a sigh.

"I don't honestly know how you can stand them, Severus," I groan, rubbing my eyes with the palms of my hands. "To think that I'm supposed to _befriend_ them… Just Avada me now."

"Do not fail," he reminds me darkly, glancing up from his papers to pierce me with a hard stare.

"Wasn't planning to," I reply dryly, my expression souring. "Has the Dark Lord contacted you?"

"Not yet."

"Merlin, you're dull today," I mutter a little teasingly, turning for the door. "No wonder none of the students like you."

Slipping from the classroom and into the hall, I hum a short, cheerful tune. First day into the mission and I'm already well on my way to making the Golden Trio become the Golden _Quad._ A few hallways away from the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, I spot a lone figure pacing through the hall. I recognize it immediately and take off towards it, swallowing the lump in my throat that tastes like guilt. I stop a few feet away, just standing for a few seconds and staring.

"Draco," I breathe, watching as he turns sharply. His eyes pass through surprise, confusion, then anger faster than should be possible.

"What do _you_ want?" he spits, looking from my toes back up to my face in disgust. Another wave of guilt stabs at me. When I speak again, it feels as if someone is pouring cement down my throat.

"I want to talk."

"I'm _not_ talking to you," he growls, turning the corridor. I follow.

"Draco – listen to me, damn it!" I shout, grabbing his wrist and pulling him into an empty classroom. Once inside, he pulls away sharply, then rounds on me, placing a hand against the wall on either side of my face so that I'm trapped. When I look up, his face is so close that I can feel his minty breath fan out on my cheeks and neck. But it isn't like it used to be. This time, he's angry. Volatile.

"No, I won't listen to you," he murmurs, his tone low and dangerous. "And if you know what's best for you, you'll stay out of my way."

With that, he drops his arms and turns away, stalking towards the door. Anger boils up within me, spilling out of my body in waves. I know I deserve his hatred, I know that I deserve his resentment. But that doesn't stop the anger.

"Grow_ up_, would you?" I shout after him, balling my hands into fists. "You're such a fucking _baby_, Draco."

Silence. He stops, his hand on the doorknob.

"_You're _telling _me_ to grow up?" he sneers suddenly, his voice a hiss as he spins to face me. His expression is livid, red with rage. He's always had that temper. I don't know which parent he got it from – his mother or his father. Both of them have got short fuses. "After what you did –"

"Merlin, Draco! That was _months ago_! I've gotten past it. I was hoping that _you_ had, as well, but apparently not."

"So what, you just expect me to forget about it?"

It takes me a while to think of what to say next. He's right, of course. I can't ask him to just _forget_ what I did and forgive me. No, it's too late for that. I try to sort through my words, put together something that won't just make him more angry.

"No," I sigh, a bit of the anger seeping out of me. Slowly. "I don't expect you to forget it. What I did was wrong, yeah, but it was a _mistake_. I seem to remember you making a few of those yourself."

"Not like this," he breathes, not shouting anymore but still just as angry. "I _never_ did this."

"Bullshit," I deadpan, staring him head-on. The anger resurfaces and shoots down to my legs and makes me take a few steps towards him. "Don't feed me that rubbish, Draco. Pugsy Parkinson and all your other girls might buy that and get down on their knees again, but I won't. You're not exactly innocent here, either."

It seems like it takes him a while to think of what to say next, too.

"Why're you here?" he finally asks, his voice is taut with anger.

"You know why."

"_He_ sent you, did he?"

_His voice is rising._

"No – I asked Him to let me come!"

_So is mine._

"Why? He asked you to, didn't he? He thinks I can't do it, doesn't he?" Draco's shouting now. "He's expecting me to fail!"

"We all are!" I scream back, my face contorting with rage. Adrenaline courses through me. Everything around me seems sharp, defined, like I've been looking at the world through a smudged piece of glass that's been removed. "_No_ _one_ thinks you can do it, Draco! I don't think even _you_ think you can do it!"

There's a long silence. A shocked silence. An angry silence. I try to think of something to say, something to mend this, but it's like I've shouted out all my words. We stand there, staring at each other, and suddenly I'm not angry anymore. It all just _whoosh_es out of me in a wave. Then all that's left is sadness. Sadness and guilt.

"I just want to help, Draco," I say calmly, "All you've got to do is let me. What happened was a mistake. A stupid, stupid mistake that I'd give anything to undo. I'm not asking you to forgive me wholeheartedly. I just need you to look past that mistake for a few months. After that, you can go back to hating my guts. And—well, if you're not going to accept my help, then go to Severus. If you do let me help you, I'm not looking for… anything like we had before. I just want to save both of our asses."

With that, I leave him staring after me in the empty corridor.


	6. Reunions

**Please read me**.

Okay, this is kind of important, so please read ALL of this. I've got three orders of business to discuss:

**1.** This chapter is called 'Rewind: The Second Missing Piece'. Okay, I'm going to have to explain this because otherwise it might get a bit confusing. Basically, I'm going to be putting 'Rewind' flashbacks every few chapters. These memories are NOT in chronological order. You can see where that might get a bit confusing. So I'm numbering them. For example, this is the second oldest memory that will be shown in this story. There will be 'First Missing Piece' in a few chapters, and that memory is the one that precedes this one (she's 15 here, and she'll be younger there).

Soo basically... even if 'The Tenth Missing Piece' comes in a chapter _before_ 'The Fourth Missing Piece', the actual event in the Tenth still happened _after_ the Fourth. The reason that the Tenth comes before the Fourth is because the memory is needed in the next few chapters. Is that still too confusing? Please message me if it is so I can find a better way of explaining it (if you can't tell already, I'm _really_ bad at explanations).

**2.** I'm thinking about starting a Draco Malfoy story. I've got an idea for it, but I haven't really worked it out all the way yet. I've made a poll asking whether or not I should start it.

IF I DO START IT, updates for this story will take longer. So what I'm asking y'all is whether you all would rather have: **_a)_** A DM story, but slower updates for this one... or **_b)_** No DM story, regular updates here. PLEASE take this poll even if you don't like DM because it affects this story.

**3.** Now, I'm going to be honest here. I love it when you guys add me to your Favorite Stories or Favorite Authors or Story Alerts. But _please_, if you do that, _please_ take the time to review, as well. I like knowing that you guys like the story, but I'd like even more to know _what_ you like about it. You don't have to be specific - it can just be something like 'Hey, I like the fluff in this chapter' or 'Hey, I _don't_ like the fluff in this chapter' or 'You shouldn't have so much Draco' or something along those lines. Don't get me wrong: I _squeal_ in excitement whenever someone adds me to their favorites or something. Really, I do. My sister thinks I'm crazy. But knowing what I should change about the story to make _you_ happier would make _me_ happier.

**Disclaimer:** I own this entire chapter! BWAHAHAHA! Well, this entire chapter except the Malfoys. Even though I'd _really_ like to own Draco & Lucius, if y'know what I mean... ;) But no, the fabulous JK Rowling's got ownership of them :/

**MUCH THANKS to the following people for reviewing/favoriting/subscribing in the last chapter:** Twilight Woods (who has reviewed MULTIPLE times! Thanks so much girl!); RedStrobeLight; HistoryNerd; ImafrikinNinja; juliest et tisbe; and last but certainly not least, THeOneAndOnlyBellaRiddle. Again, this is just in order of who did what first. You guys have made my week! Thank you!

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><p>"<em>Before we acquire great power we must acquire wisdom to use it well." –Ralph Waldo Emerson<em>

**Two-Faced [Harry Potter] Chapter Five: Rewind **

**The Second Missing Piece**

**TWO YEARS AGO**

**August 22, 1995 **

My fingers weave nimbly in and out of the locks of my hair. One by one, the dark tresses are pinned up into an elegant, elaborate bun. A gold clip in the shape of a bird in flight rests inside a velvety case on my desk – the final touch. A pair of gold earrings glint in the dim light from their places in my earlobes, and a single gold chain hangs from my neck, an amethyst pendant resting at the space between my collarbones.

My mother has insisted that I wear them all; she claims they make my eyes look like liquid gold or honey. She's just saying that, of course. My eyes are brown. An unusually light brown, granted, but brown just the same.

My makeup is already done; my lips a dark rouge, my cheeks reddened subtly with blusher, my eyes lined and my lashes lengthened. I think that I look too much like a doll (though this doesn't hit very far off the mark; I am a life-sized doll for my mother), but then again, isn't that the point? Dolls are beautiful; perfect. Exactly what us rich, respectable, _pureblooded_ women strive for.

I stand from my seat before the vanity mirror slowly, smoothing out my dress. The evening gown is simple; elegant. Plain and black, but so dark a black that it seems to shimmer, almost reflective in the light. The material is lightweight and cut close to my figure. It looks like a charcoal waterfall, falling sleekly from my waist and plunging straight to the floor, where it pools at my feet. I'll have to wear heels to keep it from touching the floor, something that makes me shudder.

I am not a heels person.

I can walk in them without tripping and they make my legs look stunning, sure, but the discomfort _after_ the night of splendor far outweighs the benefits, at least in my mind. So I let the dress skim the floor, opting to go barefoot. It's not like our tiled marble floors are _dirty_ – the house elves clean and polish them nightly.

I pass down the hall silently, thanks to my ditching the heels. I feel like a ghost, gliding down a corridor of the empty house in which she haunts.

But tonight, the Desere Mansion is far from empty.

Mother won't tell me who is coming for dinner; _Just dress formally. Wear gold_, she said vaguely, and left it at that. We don't get visitors very often, especially after what happened with Father, so naturally, my curiosity is brimming.

Unlike the houses of most pureblooded wizarding families, especially the Dark ones, the Desere Mansion's halls are not covered with ornately framed portraits of our distinguished ancestors. No, our walls are adorned instead with expensive tapestries and paintings of dark landscapes, mostly night scenes. Across the left wall of the hall through which I'm walking stretches a mirror set in a frame that looks as if it's been made out of millions of bird feathers dipped in gold.

As I get further down the hall, the burble of indistinct chatter fills my ears. I recognize the voices – my mother's high, loud soprano, of course, and another woman's tinkling voice. But I can't put my finger on who she is. It almost sounds like –

"Narcissa! Oh, how _wonder_ful it is to see you again, darling!"

Narcissa?

Narcissa _Malfoy_?

My heart jumps in my chest.

"It's been too long, Adriana," comes Narcissa's reply.

I hurry down to the end of the hall and peer around the corner, over the edge of the handrail of the staircase.

"I must say Cissy, I _adore_ what you've done with your hair!" my mother beams, touching Narcissa Malfoy's shoulder lightly. Narcissa smiles happily, returning a compliment that I can't quite hear. My mother is standing near the entrance hall, greeting three blondes at the door. Narcissa stands closest to me, embracing my mother and smiling as if she's just accepted ownership of Gringotts. They've always been close, my mother and Narcissa, ever since they were children in school.

Behind Narcissa stands a haughty Lucius, who is watching his wife with a trace of disapproval. He regards our house with an air of distaste, observing our furniture frowningly. I know exactly what he's thinking – that his wife shouldn't be so friendly with my mother, especially after what happened with Father. Now that the Dark Lord has returned, it's only natural that Lucius will want to be back in good graces with him. Hanging around the Deseres may not be the best way to do that in Lucius's eyes, what with our now tarnished track record.

But even while he regards my family so coldly, I can't help but like Lucius. I suppose, in a way, he reminds me of my father. Granted, Christophe Desere isn't quite as ill-tempered or hard-to-please as Lucius Malfoy is, but their personalities resemble one another.

To Lucius's right stands –

_Oh_.

My heart stops.

At least, I think it does. I can't really tell because my entire body's gone hot and my fingers are tingling and my stomach is churning and my cheeks are flushing.

There he is, a god in his own right.

He looks a lot like Lucius, actually (though his hair is much shorter), and is nearly as tall as his father. He's dressed in plain black dress robes that contrast starkly with his pale skin and hair. And then there are those eyes – the eyes that I'm sure the girls at Hogwarts swoon over. Light grey, with a piercing intensity that, when he looks at you – I mean _really_ looks at you—it seems like he can see your every thought, dream, and aspiration. No, more than that – it makes it seem as if he _cares_ about your every thought, dream, and aspiration.

My heart resumes its beating, but from somewhere up in my head, not in my ribcage where it's supposed to be. It's thudding a million times a minute, the pulse pounding through my blood. It's like an army is marching in my temples, sort of like that feeling you get right before a headache.

"Look at the time," Mother titters, her voice taking on a note of annoyance. She brings me back to Earth, out of the clouds, and draws me from my thoughts. "So sorry for the delay... I really don't know what's taking Aria so long…"

Taking this as my cue, I step out from the hall and stand at the top of the stairs, heading down the staircase slowly, keeping my eyes on the Malfoy family. My mother sees me first, and throws me a sharp, reprimanding look masked by a small, warm smile. Then Narcissa turns, smiles dazzlingly at me. Then Lucius.

And then _he_ looks up, and his eyes meet mine. There's that feeling again, the sensation that I'm drowning. I know it all too well, and I'm missed it all too much.

I think I've forgotten how to walk.

And breathe.

When did I start smiling?

When did I reach the bottom of the stairs?

I pause at the bottom of the staircase, still smiling, and just _stare_. I don't miss the knowing look that passes between Narcissa and my mother; Merlin knows they've been egging for a marriage between our families ever since Draco and I were kids.

When I finally start walking again, my legs feel like jelly. I'm suddenly very grateful for the fact that I'm barefoot; I don't think I would have been able to make it safely to the group in heels.

I stop before them, tearing my eyes away from his and turning instead to Narcissa. She pulls me in for a hug, then pulls away, keeping her hands resting on my shoulders and taking me in with her eyes.

"Oh dear, you look gorgeous!" she breathes, cupping my chin. "A bit dark, mind you, but still absolutely breathtaking, my dear."

"You look fantastic, Narcissa. Love what you've done with your hair," I gush, almost stealing my mother's exact words. I never know quite how to act around Narcissa. She's a perfectly understanding mother one second, a terrifying reputation demolisher the next. Narcissa Malfoy is certainly someone you don't want to cross if you value your public life. To give Narcissa a reason to release the wrath of her fury upon you is like asking for death. Merlin knows the female pureblooded circle is about as immune to a juicy bit of gossip as a shark is immune to blood in the water.

"Aria," Lucius nods to me cordially, and I respond with the due nod and mutter of 'Lucius.'

And then I turn to him.

"Draco," I say pleasantly, a smile pulling up at my lips. I extend a dainty hand, which he takes quickly, lowering his lips to brush the tanned skin at the back of my wrist.

"Aria," he murmurs, a smirk playing on his lips, too.

"Well," my mother says, clapping her hands together. "I think we should move to the drawing room, don't you, Narcissa? Aria, why don't you show Draco around?"

I don't bother telling her that Draco already knows the Desere Mansion like the back of his hand by now, seeing as it's been a second home to him since he was a baby, just like how I've known every room and secret passageway of the Malfoy Manor since before I was able to walk.

I lead Draco up the stairs and out of earshot of the adults, pulling him into my room and kicking the door shut behind us. Mother trusts me enough not to do anything… unladylike (though even if she didn't, I don't think she'd mind. Like I said, she'd be ecstatic if she could merge our names together like those celebrity muggle couples do – _Draria_. I must say, it's got a nice ring to it).

"Merlin, it's good to see you, Draco," I breathe, wrapping my arms around him. He returns the hug, and we stand there for a few minutes, just drinking in each other's presence. His arms tighten around me, and I breathe in his expensive cologne. I pull away first, stepping back and taking him in.

"Well Merlin, look who's gone hot," I tease, plopping down on the edge of my bed.

Draco just smirks, and I laugh and look away to cover my blush.

But I can't help but sense that something about him seems… off.

"Something wrong?" I hum, raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing," he shrugs, sitting down beside me. His voice is quiet. "Just missed you."

"Aw, look who's gone all soft," I coo, laughing when he pushes me.

"Shut up. How was Spain?"

"Ugh, boring," I groan, rolling my eyes. "No one to talk to, really. Mum had me on house arrest. She was scared out of her wits. And look – I've gone dreadfully dark!" I hold out an arm, which is tanned to a golden brown. "Terrible. Anyway, how's Hogwarts been?"

Draco sneers. "Same as always. That stupid old bat Dumbledore's letting the place go to waste. And Golden Boy _Potter_," he spits the name, "can do no wrong in his eyes, of course. Ministry's on to him, though. Both of them."

"Yeah, I've seen the papers," I mutter, nodding at my desk. The _Daily Prophet_ rests open on the top of it, the headline screaming _POTTER LIES_ in bold, emblazoned letters. "They're really going after him and Dumbledore, aren't they?"

"Yeah," Draco scoffs, "Good reason, too. Both of them are bloody mad."

I nod in agreement. Everyone (in our families' circles, at least) knows that Albus Dumbledore is well past his prime, and that Harry Potter stands no chance against Lord Voldemort. It's an irrefutable fact.

"I heard about what happened at the Triwizard Tournament," I say casually. "Are your parents..." I trail off, implications clear. Draco nods, his eyes downcast. I nod as well. "My mum, too. Thinks she should take Father's place or something idiotic like that."

Draco doesn't say anything.

"Our… pact… does it still… y'know, stand?"

His eyes flash towards mine.

"Yes," he answers, "of course."

I nod slowly. There's something off about his voice. We sit in silence for a while.

"My father's talking about it," Draco starts bitterly, leaning forward so that his elbows rest on his knees. "About me joining _him_ when I'm of age. It's all he can talk about."

I stiffen. "Draco –"

"I know," he hisses. "I'm not planning on it. It's just – well, you know how he is."

"My mum's thinking about it, too," I sigh, copying his stance. I rest my chin on my fists. "She hasn't brought it up yet… but I can tell she's thinking about it. That's probably what they're talking about in the drawing room now."

"That and the details of our wedding," Draco smirks, and I laugh. It's been an old joke of ours, how obviously our mothers want us to marry. But we both know it's not like that.

Draco and I are friends.

_Best friends_.

And that's all we'll ever be.

"I imagine Pansy's foiling their plans, though," I muse aloud, watching for his reaction. He looks a bit surprised, and maybe a little guilty. "Yeah, I heard about you two. But _really_? _Pugsy_?"

He looks a bit miffed. "Stop calling her that," he mutters, sounding a bit annoyed, but throws a smirk at me to let me know he isn't serious. "She's alright, really. Bit clingy... but –"

Ever the lady, I snort (with as much poise and elegance one can snort with, I assure you). "A _bit_ clingy? Draco, she's been drooling at your feet since we were kids! What happened to us hating that fat lump's guts?"

"People change," Draco mutters sourly. "Especially in five years," he seems to add as an afterthought.

I flinch. "You know I couldn't help that, Draco. Mum made me move, after what happened with my father."

"I know. Sorry."

"So who was it?" I prod, trying convince myself that I'm interested in the status of Draco's relationship with Pugsy (oh, excuse me, _Pan_sy) only out of _friend_ly concern. "Who changed? You or her?"

"Neither of us. The circumstances changed."

_Oh_.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Merlin, just… forget it."

"Fine," I relent reluctantly, knowing that he won't budge. He's stubborn like that. Always has been, always will be. "How's Blaise?"

"Alright," Draco replies, seeming relieved at the change of subject. "Haven't talked to him much."

I don't know why I asked.

Draco and Blaise aren't particularly close. I think the only reason they really ever talked to each other was because of me. The Zabinis aren't a family with Dark ties, but my father was always close to his, even back when they knew each other in Hogwarts. I've known him almost as long as I've known Draco.

"What about Theo?"

"I wouldn't know," he looks away stiffly, and I sigh.

"You two are still at odds?" I groan, turning to him. "Just because you think he's cleverer than you – "

"He isn't!"

"Come on, Draco. Admit it – you don't like Theodore Nott because he's the only Slytherin that doesn't drop at your feet and worship you. You dislike anyone who even comes _close_ to being as pureblooded and cocky as you are."

"I don't dislike _you_," he retorts, almost pouting.

"Yes, but _I'm_ irresistible," I smirk, throwing in a wink.

Draco laughs, and it's like music to my ears.

Mood officially lightened.

At dinner, we exchange amused looks at the ramblings of our parents, who discuss their _adult_ business. They talk about _That-Old-Bat-Dumbledore_ and _That-Brat-Potter_ and the return of the Dark Lord. Draco and I tune out and make faces at each other across the table until our mothers see it and scold us.

After dinner, we talk. We tease. We laugh. We smile.

Everything falls back into place.

When I laugh, he laughs.

He smiles, I smile.

I'm happy, he's happy.

And it's like I never left.

After five years without contact, five years without a single word or letter, we're back to being best friends. Just like that. Because that's just the way we are.

I tell you, the world could end, humanity could cease to exist on the planet, and Draco and I would still be there, best friends forever. We're just that solid.

And we always will be.


	7. Slipping In

**A/N: **Sorry this is so late. I started school this week (boo!) and got a huge amount of homework assigned :/ Anyway, this is really more of a filler chapter (which I suck at writing, another reason why this is so late) and it's rather short. But to make it up to you, I should have another (more eventful) chapter up tomorrow :)

**Also (this is important):** If I ever don't update in a few days, something probably has come up that's keeping me from posting. If I haven't updated in 4 or 5 days, check out my profile. I'll probably have a notice letting y'all know what's up and when I'll be posting again.

In other news, there was a citywide blackout yesterday! It was actually pretty cool. The stars were absolutely gorgeous.

**Disclaimer:** I own only Aria/Ari/Remy. Everything else is property of the fantabulicious JK Rowling.

**Thank you **to the following fantabulicious people who reviewed/favorited/subscribed in the past week: **Twilight Woods, CierraLuv97, Electric-Aura, Carter Fairway, TheOneAndOnlyBellaRiddle, and AdonCa.**

**Please read the message at the bottom.**

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><p>"<em>The measure of a man is what he does with power." –Plato<em>

**Two-Faced [Harry Potter] Chapter Six: Reeling**

The first week of school passes surprisingly quickly.

I see little of Draco – he avoids eye contact in the few classes we have in common, and I catch only glimpses of him in the halls. For once, I can't tell what he's thinking. That bothers me more than it should.

But as the days go on, I find another concern occupying my thoughts, poking and prodding at me until I can't ignore it any longer.

I'm supposed to be making friends.

Of all the things I was fretfully worrying about messing up on this mission, making friends was definitely not one of them. In fact, the issue barely even crossed my mind. It seemed like a miniscule problem in comparison with everything else going on – absurd to waste valuable time sweating over it. I knew I'd have to befriend the Gryffindors to 'fit in' and avoid suspicion, but I never thought it'd be this _hard_.

As it turns out, when you transfer into a new school in the second-to-last year, people have already settled into routines, wound their tightly-knit cliques and groups of friends. A lot of them aren't looking for new ones.

And, because I've spent that last eight years keeping a _low profile_ under Mum's orders, my skills in making conversation are a little… rusty.

Not that they were ever very good.

Too many times throughout the first week I find myself just barely getting out of embarrassingly snarky, vicious comments that sound all too anti-mudblood and Death Eater-y. I've even slipped up and called Harry '_Potter'_ to his face and more than once I've had to cut myself off halfway through saying 'Mudblood.' If anyone's noticed this, they haven't pointed it out. But for how long?

It's because I'm worrying over this problem that I don't notice Granger marching purposefully towards me until she stops before me in the common room, clutching a stack of books to her chest like a lifeline and a determined expression on her face.

"Do you need tutoring in Ancient Runes?"

My head snaps up.

"Wh-what?" I furrow my eyebrows, wondering what the _hell_ this girl is talking about.

"Do you need tutoring in Ancient Runes," she says again, "I noticed you looked a bit lost this week, so…"

What in Merlin's name is she going on about?

"I-I'm doing fine in Ancient Runes, thank you very much," I snap, blinking furiously, my pride taking control of my tongue. "I don't know where you got the impression that I wasn't, but –"

That's when it hits me.

I need to connect with the Mudblood, right? This may be the perfect opportunity to take care of just that.

"Alright," I start over, a small smile spreading over my lips, "You got me. I do think that I need a bit of extra help. Especially with this essay…"

"Really? I thought it was quite easy, actually, but then again I already read the textbook over the summer…"

Sweet Merlin, what I would give to be able to throttle this girl to death. Her ego is suffocating. It's taking up the air in the room. Does she take pleasure in making others feel stupid? Unnecessarily, in this case, as I don't _really_ think the essay is hard – I finished it two days ago.

"Yeah," I say lamely, not quite sure of what to say. How does one respond to something like that?

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><p>Hermione Granger is possibly the worst tutor in the history of the planet.<p>

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><p>By the time I enter the Great Hall at breakfast on Saturday morning, Mudblood has come to like Remy Turner well enough to let her sit next to her and the Golden Trio at the Gryffindor Table.<p>

As I veer towards the group and fix a smile on my face, I think about what their reactions would be if they knew not Remy Turner, but Ari Desere, Dark Mark revealed.

I imagine there being a lot of screaming and casting of spells.

Suddenly, my fake smile becomes a little more real.

It's amazing to think that one symbol, one tattoo, one mark, can cause so much fear and panic and anger. Not only is it amazing – it's empowering. It makes me walk a little straighter, makes my chin tilt up a bit higher.

I slide into the bench next to Granger, who reintroduces me to Potter and Weasley. I smile demurely, make small talk, laugh at all the right places.

It's somehow easier, talking with them. I don't know why, but the words come more naturally with the Golden Trio than with everyone else in Gryffindor House. They just spill out of my mouth from somewhere in my head, and I don't realize they've been said until the three are laughing and nodding and letting me weasel my way into their group.

I've got a hunch that it's because they're more important than everyone else. Of everyone in the school, these three are the ones I've got to impress most. They're the most suspicious and weary of everyone, and they know what's really out there – Death Eaters, the Dark Lord, the war that's brewing. Maybe it's the tension, the knowing that even one slip up will cost me this mission, possibly my life. Maybe that pressure's what's making my lips move of their own accord, making my tongue mold the words like putty.

Maybe it's the fact that I can feel Draco's eyes on me, feel his gaze burning into my back. Maybe it's the pain coursing through my Dark Mark. Maybe it's the pound of adrenaline whizzing through my blood.

But I'm not sure about any of that.

All I know is that the Golden Trio likes Remy Turner. And Remy Turner likes the Golden Trio. Or she would if she wasn't me.

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><p>I spend the rest of the day smiling, chattering, and laughing away with Potter, Weasley, and Mudblood. I pick them apart. Dig into them. Try to figure out what makes them tick.<p>

I know I'm not only here to help Draco – no, the Dark Lord would never waste a Death Eater or an _opportunity_ like that. I'm also here to figure out what's going on. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that the Order of the Phoenix doesn't trust Severus Snape. Dumbledore might – or, at least, might _appear_ to – but the rest of them don't, especially Potter. My job is to find out what Potter's planning. To figure out whatever he's not telling Dumbledore, or whatever Dumbledore's not telling Severus.

So far, I haven't got much.

Potter is preoccupied most of the time, has his nose always buried in the pages of his Potions textbook. What in Merlin's name he finds interesting in that dull book, I've not the vaguest idea. He's almost starting to turn into Granger.

She's a bit more predictable. The girl's like clockwork. She sticks to her Prefect schedule like it's a matter of life and death. Starts her homework promptly after classes. Rushes off to the library during breaks.

Weasley's…well, I don't really count him for anything. I figure he's more of the sidekick, the supportive best friend who doesn't really do much and is really just there for reassurance and a few laughs. Like the jester.

When night falls, the three of them are huddled over Potter's beloved Potions book that he can't seem to part with, talking in hushed voices. I strain to hear them, keeping my eyes carefully trained on my Ancient Runes homework, but it's impossible to catch more than a few words at a time without making it obvious that I'm listening in.

Granger's the one speaking. "…might have been… handwriting… more like a girl's than a boy's."

"…how many… have been princes?" There's Potter. "I better go… late for Dumbledore…"

I have to push back the urge to snap my head up and lean forward over my desk to hear more of the conversation. He's got a meeting with Dumbledore?

"Good luck!" says Granger, a bit more loudly, "We'll wait up, we want to hear what he teaches you!"

"Hope it goes okay," Weasley calls after Potter as he walks away from them.

I slink out of my chair, not bothering to pack up my books and papers. After making sure that Mudblood and Weasley aren't watching, I follow Potter out of the portrait hole. His shadowy figure is just barely disappearing down the corridor. I press against a wall and hurry after him, wondering what his meeting with Dumbledore could be about. Are they planning for the war? Do they know something new about the Dark Lord? Is Dumbledore giving Potter private defense lessons?

Potter ducks behind a statue as Professor Trelawney rounds a corner, and I do the same with the suit of armor standing at attention to my left. She hasn't seen either of us, as her attention is focused solely on the battered pack of cards in her hands.

"Two of spades: conflict," she mutters, "Seven of spades: an ill omen. Ten of spades: violence. Knave of spades: a dark young man, possibly troubled, one who dislikes the questioner –"

She stops suddenly. "Well, that can't be right," she says, reshuffling the cards and setting off again down the hall.

Potter moves from behind his statue, checking down the hall to make sure that the coast is clear, and hurries towards the lone gargoyle standing against a wall. I peer out from around the suit of armor, watching in confusion as he mutters something to the stone figure. It leaps to the side, revealing a moving stone spiral staircase. Potter steps onto the bottom landing of the stair and moves upwards with it, disappearing from my view.

I hiss and run towards the gargoyle, willing it not to do what I think it's about to do. But – oh, there it goes. It jumps back into its place of guarding the staircase. I scowl at its gnarled stone face. I hope I'm just imagining the smug quirk in its etchings.

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><p>I slip back into the common room in a foul mood and trudge up the steps to the girls' dormitories, my legs feeling heavy. Today was a good day, a productive one, but knowing what Potter was meeting with Dumbledore about would have topped it all.<p>

My mind is reeling with suspicions and worries. The meeting has to be important, and I'd bet my wand that it's about the Dark Lord. Other worries plague me. What if Draco doesn't accept my help? What if he doesn't accept Severus's?

I fall face-first into the fluffy sheets of my four-poster bed, burying my face in my pillows. I suddenly feel dead-tired, like my blankets have sucked all the energy out of me. Who knew becoming an entirely different person could be so draining?

I can feel myself slipping away, giving into the beckons of sleep, when an incessant tapping sounds from one of the windows. I force my head up out of the pillows, spotting a brown and white speckled Eagle Owl sitting expectantly on the windowsill, a letter strapped to its left leg.

My heart jumps.

I know that owl.

I fling myself out of the bed, nearly tripping over the blankets that follow me and pool around my feet, and fling the window open, coaxing the bird into the room and tearing the letter from its leg.

There's that familiar scrawl, long and elegant and neat. It's different now, though, somehow more mature than I remember. It's lost its messy boyishness over the years.

A smile spreads over my face as I read over the letter.

_Meet me in the DADA classroom at midnight tonight._

_D._

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><p><strong>Important<strong>:

AdonCa left me a review that I'd like to address, just in case anyone else has had doubts similar to hers.

First of all, I know Aria/Ari/Remy is a bitch right now, and I know that it may be kind of hard to sympathize with her.

But she _will_ evolve. She _will_ change. And as more of her past is revealed, I hope that she'll become a little more relatable.

As for her relationship with Draco, I just want to make this clear: the Draco Malfoy portrayed in this story will be a bit different than the Malfoy shown in the books and movies. I'm going to be giving him a backstory that shows _why_ he does what he does. It may not justify his being an ass to Harry and Hermione and everyone else, but I'm providing a little bit more depth into his character based on what Rowling has revealed about him in interviews (and trust me, _every_ twist I put on his character and the reasons behind his actions _is_ based on an interview with Rowling).

If you've got any more concerns, feel free to leave them for me in a review or message. I'll be sure to address them. I won't bite ;)

-Flyx


	8. Always

**A/N: **Three orders of business today:

1. The Poll: Not enough people have taken the poll for me to really draw any conclusive results from it. Please - after you're done reading this chapter, go take the poll. If no more than 15 people take it, I'm just going to go the way I want to go. If I _do_ start a DM story, updates here will wind down to one or two a week. If I _don't_, updates will stay the same.

2. Someone asked about the Rewind chapters and how often they'll be popping up. The answer to that isn't definite; I use a Rewind chapter whenever events from the flashback will be needed in the coming chapters, or when questions from the last chapter were brought up that need to be answered (such as with this chapter. Next chapter will be a Rewind).

3. Someone else asked about this being a HPxOC story. Yeah, you might have noticed that this seems more like a DMxOC story right now, but I assure you - this _is_ a Harry Potter love story ;) But as I mentioned in the first chapter, it moves a bit slower than a lot of others I've seen. But have no fear, there will be some HP lovin' to come ;)

**Mucho thanks to** the following lovely people who reviewed/favorited/subscribed to the last chapter: **Twilight Woods** (who has reviewed nearly every chapter! Thanks, girl!), **XxBellatrixLestrange917xX**, **Electric-Aura, neocreate, , the world is full of magic,**and last but certainly not least, **mecherry_._** Thanks, everyone! You make my day :)

**Disclaimer**: I own only my OCs and the plot of this fanfic. Credit for all other things go to JK Rowling, who I wish I had a mental connection with so I could share her brilliance.

And sorry about my Author's Notes always being ridiculously long. If this is bothering you guys, let me know... maybe I can figure out a way to make 'em shorter :)

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><p>"<em>Power does not corrupt men; fools, however, if they get into a position of power, corrupt power." –George Bernard Shaw<em>

**Two-Faced [Harry Potter] Chapter Seven: Resolved**

_Meet me in the DADA classroom at midnight tonight._

_D._

The letter burns in my hand as my eyes take in the slanted scrawl, the slight bleed of the ink, the heavy parchment. I read it again. And again.

And again.

I sigh, leaning back and allowing my pillows to swallow me, thankful for the privacy leant to me by the curtains drawn around my four-poster bed. I all but ripped Audra's head off when she flung them open to ask if I wanted to play Truth or Dare with her and the rest of my airheaded dorm mates.

The four of them are still at it, whispering a few hushed words and dissolving into a fit of giggles. I curse them mentally with every spell I know, both Dark and school-taught, wondering what in the world could be so important that they can't wait until morning to talk about it. Why in Merlin's name can't they go to bed at a reasonable hour?

It's 12:17.

I'm seventeen minutes late.

"Do you think she's asleep?"

I frown. That's Kathy, the least stupid of my dorm mates, save Audra.

"Well, how should _I_ know?"

Audra.

"I dunno! You're the only one here that's talked to her!"

Kathy again.

"So what, you're expecting me to be able to read her mind?"

"Oh, just shut up and check."

Footsteps. I quietly shove the letter under my pillow and curl up onto my side and shut my eyes, feigning sleep, just as my curtain is wrenched back. I can feel a pair of eyes peering down at me, and fight the urge to suddenly jump up and shout _Boo!_

"Yeah, I think she's asleep."

Footsteps recede.

"God, who goes to sleep this early?"

There's Persephone, I think. She's the _most_ stupid of my dorm mates.

"And it's not even a school day!"

Kathy.

"What do you guys think of her?"

Audra.

"_Personally, _I don't like her. She too, like, self-absorbed. She thinks she's _so_ much better than the rest of us. I mean, you heard her when Audie asked her to play Truth or Dare!"

"She's not that bad, Kath."

Well, will you look at that – Audra's my knight in shining armor, come to defend my honor.

"Aud, don't _defend _her! She hasn't even _attempted_ to talk to anyone in our dorm other than you! She thinks she's _so_ cool –"

"She's just shy!"

"She's not and you know it! Have you _seen_ her when she's around Harry and Ron and Hermione? She's gone all buddy-buddy with _them_."

Audra apparently doesn't have anything to say to that. I make a mental note to talk to her more and be a bit nicer. I've got the feeling that she's the only one in the dorm that's going to be of any real use to me.

"Whatever." That's Mary. "Let's just go to bed. I've got a detention with Snape tomorrow morning."

I breathe a sigh of relief. At least one of them has got some sense. Several pairs of feet shuffle across the floor, each of the girls heading back to their beds and muttering their sympathy to Mary.

* * *

><p>The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom is unlit when I pull open the door and step into it.<p>

A lone figure stands facing one of the posters, his arms rigid at his sides and his impossibly blond hair like a beacon in the dark. I stand in the doorway a while, staring at the same poster hanging on the wall before him.

It's a gruesome picture, one that makes my throat go dry. A witch lays on a dirty cell floor, her face twisted with agony and her body contorted. From her mouth flies a soundless scream as she writhes and convulses, her eyes wide with terror.

"The Cruciatus Curse," I murmur, coming to stand next to Draco. He doesn't flinch or turn, just keeps staring at it. "Have you used it before?"

The shake of his head is almost imperceptible, but it makes something sigh in relief inside of me, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Somehow, knowing that he hasn't used it, hasn't caused that sort of damage, makes me feel lighter.

"You?"

I shrug, turning away. That's answer enough.

"So what's up? Why the midnight rendezvous?"

Draco turns towards me, studying me for a few moments.

"What happened before won't be brought up," he states, not quite asking it as a question. I nod in confirmation, swallowing guilt. He nods once and steps past me, striding across the classroom and out the door. I follow quietly, almost having to jog in attempt to keep up with his brisk pace.

We walk in silence, the only sound in the empty corridors being our soft footfalls. Curiosity itches inside of me but I push it back, knowing that he won't answer any of my questions. He likes the theatricality of the suspense, I'm sure.

Draco stops before a blank wall, his brow furrowed and his fists clenched. I study him curiously, worry creasing between my brows. Has he gone mad? The wall's blank, there's nothing on it.

But then –

My jaw almost drops in astonishment.

Draco steps through a door that's suddenly appeared on the wall and waits on the other side, staring back at me expectantly. I growl at the smug look on his face and follow him into the room, watching with amazement as the door slams shut behind me and disappears, leaving behind a smooth wall with no trace of a door.

The room in which we're standing is messy, filled with odd baubles and random pieces of junk that look as if they haven't seen the sun in hundreds of years. Broken and obsolete furnishings have been piled into towers that loom dozens of feet in the air, some of them teetering precariously and sending shocks of caution through my body.

"What is this place?" I breathe, looking around in awe. I'm aware that Draco's studying me, his eyes alight with amusement.

"Room of Requirement," he answers and sets off down the aisles between the towers with a smirk. I quickly follow, eyeing a few of the less-than-safe looking ones.

"What are we doing here?"

He doesn't answer, only stops before a tall, shadowy figure that looms at least ten feet high. It looks like something large covered in a sheet, hidden. Draco grabs a corner of the cloth and wrenches it downward. My vision blurs with white for a moment as the sheet falls the ground, revealing what looks to be a large wooden wardrobe.

"What is it?" I ask, circling it and running my finger across its smooth, polished surface.

"It's a Vanishing Cabinet," Draco says, obviously pleased with himself. "It's how I'm going to get the Death Eaters into the castle. There's another one in Borgin and Burkes, linked to this one. It's broken, so we'll need to repair it…"

"Brilliant," I breathe, turning to him with a wide smile. "Absolutely brilliant. Who else knows about it? Does Severus?"

His expression sours.

"No," he spits, "I'm not telling _him_ anything. Only reason he wants to help is so that he can take the glory for himself."

"How do you know that's not what I'm doing?" I tease, falling back onto an old, ratty couch. Plumes of dust poof around me, circling in the air before settling. I know better than to try to convince Draco to think differently of Severus. If Draco wants to believe someone's out to get him, Merlin knows he'll keep believing it for a long, long time.

"You could never betray me," Draco returns, smirking, falling back next to me. He only seems to realize what he's said a few moments after he's said it, and his face falls. I look away, biting my lip and refusing to meet his gaze.

"Draco, I –"

"We said we weren't going to talk about it," he murmurs, looking down. "So we won't."

I nod, wincing under the pangs of guilt.

"Have you heard from your father?" I segue into a new topic smoother than butter.

"No," Draco snorts, "They don't exactly have visiting hours in Azkaban."

I smile a little sadly, leaning against the arm of the sofa. "I haven't had word from mine, either. Yaxley was talking the other day… said he's already gotten the Kiss."

"Yaxley's a git," he says immediately, "He was lying. They can't do anything to either of our fathers while they've still got valuable information."

"Do you think your father gave anything up? Any names?"

"Probably," Draco admits, shame touching his voice. "My father's a coward."

"You used to idolize your father," I murmur, watching him carefully. "What happened?"

He shrugs and gives a little, bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Things change."

"That they do," I mutter, rubbing my eyes with the palms of my hands. "You got any idea what's going to happen to them? When the Ministry's done with them, I mean. They've got to overstay their welcome sometime."

"They might use them as leverage on Voldemort. Not that that would ever work."

I sigh, blowing a piece of hair out of my eyes. "So," I huff, "What have you got planned for Dumbledore? How're we bringing him down?"

"I've got no idea," Draco admits, but doesn't look all that ruffled. "But he's given me the whole year, so –"

"And you think that's going to be enough?" I laugh, shaking my head incredulously. "Look, Dumbledore's not an idiot. We can't just jump out from behind a statue and throw a Killing Curse. This is going to take _planning_. Like, serious planning. He's probably been expecting something like this for a while now. Precautions have probably been made."

"Yeah, I know," he mutters, waving me away. "But we've got time. I want to focus on the Cabinet first."

"Whatever you say, Cap'n," I mutter, rolling my eyes and struggling to stand. "Are you sure Borgin isn't going to spill to anyone?"

Draco smirks. "He won't be telling."

"Oh Merlin, what'd you threaten him with?"

"Greyback. Told him he's a family friend."

Greyback's name sends a shiver down my spine. If there's one Death Eater I hate, it's Fenrir Greyback. My lip curls into a sneer.

"Where is Greyback, anyway? I haven't seen him at meetings. Not that I'm complaining, but…"

"I heard he's rallying the werewolves. Trying to get them to our side."

I nod absently, my mind suddenly on the coming war. To have werewolves on our side would be an astounding advantage… but the thought of having to share ranks with the halfbreeds sends my skin crawling.

"Do you know if we've got the giants in?"

"No idea," I answer, adding huge, bulky men to my mental picture of the war. "But if we do get them, I've got the feeling we're going to win."

"Unless Saint Potter suddenly shows the superpowers everything seems to think he's got," Draco scoffs, rolling his eyes with a sneer. "It's idiocy. He falls on some dumb luck in the Ministry and now he's some sort of celebrity."

I laugh. "You should see the girls in the dorm. They fall over themselves just to talk to him. It's nauseating."

"You seemed pretty friendly with him at breakfast," Draco states, and I can tell he's trying to sound nonchalant and unaffected. I roll my eyes.

"Jealous, Draco?"

"Of course not," he snaps, casting me a dirty look. "Just don't want you screwing up the mission."

"Right," I hum, "I'm just being _friendly_. Making _friends_. You should really try it sometime."

Draco snorts. "I've got friends."

"No Draco, you've got henchmen. Crabbe and Goyle? Yeah, they're not friends. Pansy? She's not a friend. She's a ho. Your fanclub? They just want you in their beds. And your money."

"I'm offended," Draco sniffs, clutching his chest in mock hurt, "And here I thought _you_ were my friend."

I laugh. "And here I thought I was just your _very_ hot partner in crime."

And just like that, things are back to normal.

The Big Fight, as I've come to call it in my head, is a taboo topic, completely off limits. Neither of us brings it up, but both of us think about it more than we should. But other than that, us thinking about The Big Fight and regretting it, it's like it doesn't exist.

Sitting in the Room of Requirement, we talk. We tease. We laugh. We smile.

Everything falls back into place.

When I laugh, he laughs.

He smirks, I smirk.

I plot to kill Dumbledore, he plots to kill Dumbledore.

And it's like The Big Fight never happened.

After five months without contact, five months without a single word or letter, five months of brooding over TBF, we're back to being best friends. Just like that. Because that's just the way we are.

I tell you, the world could end, humanity could cease to exist on the planet, and Draco and I would still be there, best friends forever. We're just that solid.

And we always, _always_ will be.


	9. The Old Innocence

**A/N:** A a (kind of important) notice before we begin:

I saw something that an author on here did that I thought was really cool; she had a thingy on her profile that showed how far along the next update was. So I've decided to do something like that, only a little modified. If you're wondering when the next chapter will be posted, head over to my profile. I'll post the progress of the story daily (something like "current word count, word count goal, status [complete/in progress], stage [writing/editing], approx. update date" and stuff like that. So if I'm taking a little while longer to post, check that out and it'll let you know how much I've written, and I'll include an explanation of why I'm late.

**Disclaimer:** I own alllll of this chapter :) Well, except Draco. And the bits that pertain to the Harry Potter series. Those are property of JK Rowling. But Aria, her parents, the aurors, and the plot of this fanfic are allll miiiine :D

**Mucho thanks to** the following lovely people who have reviewed/favorited/subscribed since the last chapter**:** **lildrummergurl98**; **Electric-Aura** (multiple reviews from this lovely lady! Woot!); **mecherry** (two reviews! Wachow! You rock!); **whitewhite**; **0Goddess** **Nyx0**; and **nyermen.**

I try to message everyone that reviews, but if it takes me a few days, it's not because I don't like you - it's because I'm swamped with homework. And if you leave a really long review, I'll also send you a really nice picture of a cat. Or something to that effect.

_Three cheers for the longest chapter so far! _

* * *

><p><strong>Two-Faced [Harry Potter] Chapter Eight: Rewind<strong>

**The First Missing Piece**

**SEVEN YEARS AGO**

**August 4, 1991**

The house is cold and dark.

The dark grey tiles that make up the floor of my bedroom are like ice against the bottoms of my feet as I shuffle across the room. The air is frigid, its numbing teeth nipping at my skin and sending a shiver rippling down my spine.

Mornings like this one aren't unusual in the Desere Mansion. The rooms are always chilly and darkly lit, giving the house the feel of an old, medieval castle. That's the way my parents prefer it. I guess it's comfortable, familiar, for them – after all, they grew up in Hogwarts, in the Slytherin dungeons. I suppose this reminds them of their school years, when they were younger and in love.

But even so, I can't shake the haunting feeling that creeps over me like a mist, the suspicion that there's something… _else_ lingering like an unwanted guest. There's a foreboding sort of heaviness thickening the air in the room, making my body feel heavy and slow.

I try to brush it off, blame the sluggishness on the early hour and my trouble sleeping last night.

Blame the eery chill percolating in the room on the abysmal weather.

Blame the prickling at the back of my neck on soreness of my muscles from overdoing it on the broom yesterday.

I'm slow to get ready. It's like weights have been strapped to my hands and feet and neck. Or like someone's turned my muscles to ice. I pull on my clothes with care, straightening my blouse and smoothing out the folds of my skirt. I need to look nice today.

Father's coming back.

He's always in a bad mood when he gets back from work, especially after long business trips. I still don't know what he does – something for the Ministry of Magic, Mum says, and that's the end of it. She never tells me anything more. All I know is that whatever it is he does has got him away an awful lot – I almost never see him anymore.

I fix my hair into two pigtails on either side of my head, letting my bangs cover my forehead. Draco always says that the pigtails look stupid, but I think it looks cute. Father says so, too, whenever he feels guilty after getting angry with me. A sort of apology, I guess.

After adding the final touch – a silky green bow tied to each of the pigtails and a pair of green jeweled earrings – my eyes trail down to the desk on which my mirror is placed. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of the corner of a letter peeking out from under another sheet of parchment.

My fingers close around the envelope and my heart thuds in my chest, kicking up a few gears. A shooting thrill runs up my arm as I open the envelope and slide out the letter, admiring the seal printed at the top of the expensive parchment.

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_.

An electrifying shiver shoots through my body.

Then a flutter of disappointment.

_I can't go_.

A stab of anger.

_They said no_.

With a hiss of frustration, I fling my Hogwarts acceptance letter back onto the desk and stand, smoothing out my skirt again, calming my nerves. _Even temper, Aria._

I cross the room, pulling open my bedroom door and traipsing down the hall.

"Mummy," I start, straightening one of my pigtails as I take the stairs two at a time, "When's Father coming home?"

She looks up from her cup of tea, peering at me over the edge of _The Daily Prophet_. "A few hours, I expect. Come sit with me."

I nod, taking a seat next to her on the loveseat. I bite my lip nervously, drawing a breath and letting it out slowly. Curiosity burns inside of me. All at once, it spills out.

"What does father do?" I blurt, fingering a loose thread on one of my sleeves, "Why is he away all the time?"

Mother t'sks and turns to me, huffing a sigh and fixing her gaze just behind me. "I've told you before, Aria. He works for the Ministry of Magic."

"Yes," I sigh exasperatedly, determined to get the truth this time. The whole truth – not just the vague answer I'm always left with. "But what does he _do_ there? What department does he work in? What does he do on all those trips? Why doesn't he ever talk about it?"

"Aria," Mother murmurs softly, a note of warning in her voice. "It's not your business to know. Your father does what he does, and that's that. And straighten your back – I won't have you looking like a slouching fool when your father returns."

I huff angrily but obediently fix my posture, glaring down at my hands. "But it _is_ my business," I argue hotly, "I deserve to know what my father does. He's never home anymore…"

"He's coming home today, isn't he?" Mother snaps, shaking her hair out of her face and staring pointedly at the fireplace.

"You know what I mean."

"No, Aria, I don't," she bites back, "And I won't have you using that tone with me. Even temper, Aria. Remember your poise. The four 'P's."

"Prim, proper, poised, and pureblooded," I mutter, glowering down at my clenched fists. I know better than to push any further.

"Can I see Draco today?" I change subjects, looking up at Mother hopefully.

"You saw him yesterday, Aria," she reminds me.

"So?" I argue stubbornly. "You can visit his mum while I'm with him."

"Narcissa is taking Draco to buy his school things today," Mother says stiffly. A pang of anger and sadness shudders through me.

"I still don't see why I can't go to Hogwarts," I pout, crossing my arms over my chest. "Everyone else gets to go, even _Pugsy_."

"Aria," she barks sharply, "Don't call Pansy that. The Parkinsons are our friends. And don't cross your arms. It's not dignified."

"But why can't I go?"

"Because your father and I say so," she says firmly, "And that's that."

My eyes shoot daggers at the fireplace. "Is Father coming by Floo?"

"He should be, yes."

"How does –"

A sharp _crack!_ sounds from the kitchen, then the slap of shoes sprinting over the marble tile. My mother and I jump up just as a dark figure rushes into the room. It's Father, but not like I've ever seen him.

His eyes are mad, dark pools of molten panic. His long brown hair isn't its usual silkiness; instead it's a tangled mess. His robes are disheveled and hang from his shoulders unevenly. His wand is drawn and is clenched in his right hand, his left balled into a fist and curled up against his chest, as if wounded.

"Adriana, Aria," he hisses hoarsely, "Get out of here."

Mother nods quickly, grabbing my hand and hauling me across the room. My head whips around wildly, confusion pulsing through my mind. "Wh-what's going on? Father? Mum?"

"Quiet, Aria," Mother barks, pulling me towards the base of the staircase.

Another two _cracks_. Another two sets of feet running into the parlor.

"Aurors," Mother whispers next to me.

After that, everything is loud, bright, and hellish.

Mother screams at me to _run, run, Aria!_ as a flash of neon red light whizzes past my left ear, speeding towards my father and exploding against the wall as he ducks. But I can't move, my feet are lead and my eyes are wide.

Two dark figures are standing across the room, their wands drawn and aimed threateningly towards the three of us. One is heavyset, and his face is ravaged with scars and angry red welts. The other is just the opposite – thin and stringy, with hair like moldy hay and waxy smooth skin.

Spells flash, sparking and hissing as they whir through the air. Mother has pulled out her own wand, spurts of green flying from its tip towards the two strangers. A stray curse hits the chandelier overhead, and it crashes to the ground a few feet away.

The room is now dark, lit only by the curses flying by.

Shouts and the pound of feet fill the air, the gruff voices of men ringing through the hall. My mother screams my father's name, but there's no response.

She's pulling me up the stairs, sobbing and pleading for me to just _run_. But I can't, like my whole body's numb. I can't feel my legs anymore. Or my arms or my head or my fingers.

And then it's all over.

The spells stop.

The shouting stops.

Wands light up with mutters of _Lumos_.

Three other men have joined the original two, who are holding up the limp body of my father, each one holding one of his arms. His wand lays in two pieces on the floor a few feet away.

"Got him, Gringe," one of the men grunts.

"Aye, Lor," says Gringe with a grim smile. "Pathetic fool."

Father stirs a little at that, struggling weakly against the men's holds. "The Dark Lord will rise again," he rasps, his voice weak but resolute. "Just you wait. Lord Voldemort will return and I will be rewarded and honored."

"'Ey 'orace," another one of the men shouts. "Can you shut this bloody idjit off?"

Horace lumbers forward and leans down low in front of Father's face. "You-Know-Who ain't coming back, y'hear? An' castin' that mark in the sky ain't gonna change that none."

"The Dark Lord will rise again," Father repeats, staring into Horace's steely gaze. "Just as great and twice as powerful."

"Let's take this mental case to Azkaban, men," Lor shouts, pulling Father to his feet. "Dementors will knock some sense into him."

His head swivels in our direction, his silvery eyes squinting at our figures huddled at the top of the stairs. Lor's brow furrows in concentration. He seems to be working something out in his head.

"Oi! You two there!" he shouts, his booming voice ringing in the drawing room. Mother flinches a bit, her lip quivering as she swallows nervously. "You his wife and kid?"

Mother makes no move to respond, so I nod stiffly through my fear. He looks over in my direction, his watery eyes holding mine for a while. Something that looks like pity or sympathy flashes through them, and he nods resolutely.

"You got the Mark, lady?" he nods to Mother. She shakes her head furiously, wrenching up her left sleeve to reveal a pale, blank forearm. Lor nods again, turning to the others. "Leave the wife and kid. They didn't have anything to do with this, I reckon."

"But-but she used the Killing Curse! On us!" one of the men roars, looking between my mother and the leader in outrage. The others nod seriously, fixing my mother and me with dark looks.

"Self defense," Lor responds calmly, "We were shooting spells at them first. Leave them."

The man frowns but complies, apparating, the only evidence that he was ever there being the distinct footprints left on our floors in mud. The others do the same, disappearing with Father. Mother and I make no move to stop them, both of us frozen in our panic.

Lor's the last one to leave, turning to us and fixing us with a hard stare. "Don't get caught up in this, hear? Make sure that arm _stays_ unMarked, lady." Then he disappears with a _crack_, leaving my mother and I in the dark hall, afraid and alone.

So terribly alone.

* * *

><p><em>Pack your things. We're leaving tonight<em>.

I didn't ask where. I didn't ask why.

I kept my mouth shut like a good girl and did as Mother said.

The house we're standing before is a smaller one than what we're used to. It isn't the cute, quaint cottage you read about in fairy tales, either. It's a shack. Just a roof and four walls, nothing cute or quaint about it.

My feet ache and my stomach feels as if I've swallowed a rock. We've had to walk at least a dozen miles and rode in various muggle buses to throw off any Ministry goons that traced us because we apparated without a long distance permit.

This part of Spain isn't beautiful like in the painting hanging in the hall at home – no, not home anymore. Just the mansion. Our old mansion. _This_ is our home now. This shack.

_No contact with anyone from before_.

I don't protest. I don't complain.

I keep my mouth shut like a good girl and do as Mother says.

_Not even Draco_.

I don't utter a word of opposition.

Mother's too tired for that. I'm too scared for that.

I'm too scared to cry. I'm too scared to feel anything.

Scared for Father, scared for Mother, scared for me.

Just scared.

* * *

><p><strong>ONE YEAR BEFORE<strong>

The wind runs its cold fingers through my ponytails, sending my hair whipping about my face. My breath comes in huffs as I bend forward, my hands on my knees as I will my heart to slow down.

"No fair, you cheated!" Draco shouts from across the field, his voice almost getting lost in the wind as he races towards me at breakneck speed. His blue-grey eyes are narrowed and his bottom lip juts out in a pout.

"I did not!" I exclaim, hands on my hips. "I won, fair and square. You're just a sore loser."

We fall to the grass together, lying on our backs in opposite directions, our faces next to each other. I can hear his panting breath and just barely see the way his red cheeks puff out with every exhale. I shut my eyes, liking the way our breaths come at the same time.

The meadow is _our meadow_, plain and simple. Everyone knows that. Even if no one knows about the meadow but us, we're certain that it's just a known fact that no one else is allowed in it. Our friendship forms a sort of fence around it, a force field keeping everyone out of it.

A wave of contentment crashes over me. Here, with Draco, time stands still. We're best friends; always have, always will be. Nothing breaks _us_ apart.

But the flush of happiness is suddenly drowned out by the disturbing thought that tugs at my mind, the same disturbing thought that's been plaguing me for weeks. Draco's my best friend – I can tell him, right?

"My father says that You-Know-Who is coming back," I state all in one breath, watching out of the corner of my eye for Draco's reaction. His eyes had been closed, but they snap open in an instant, growing wide. "I heard him telling my mother."

Recovering from his shock, his lip curls a bit. "Don't be stupid, Aria, he's gone. Everyone knows so," he sneers, but there's a trace of fear in his voice. We know better than anyone what He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has done. We know better than anyone not to speak his name.

"Father says there are signs. Has your father mentioned it?"

Draco shrugs, trying to look casual and unperturbed. "We don't talk. Not about _that_."

I look up at the sky, the delicate blue dotted with puffs of cotton-looking clouds. They look darker today than I've ever seen the m before, tinged with an array of grays around the edges. It makes them look oddly two-dimensional, flat and more like a painting than a real sky.

"If You-Know-Who does come back, do you think your father will join him again?"

Draco squirms a bit, obviously uncomfortable. He looks around at the trees that surround our little hideaway as if checking for nonexistent eavesdroppers. "Probably."

I nod in understanding. "Yeah, my father probably will too. Mum won't though, she wasn't really ever with him. Just a supporter, never got Marked. Like your mum, I guess."

There's a silence for a while, an uncomfortable one. We've left the conversation on an awkward and dark note.

"I never want to be like my parents," I say suddenly, resolve forming in my mind. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know they're the truest words I've ever spoken. The truest words I will ever speak. "Never. I'd rather die first."

"Me too," Draco agrees, nodding a bit with a shudder. "Not like my father."

"Let's make a… a pact!" my face brightens as the word spills from my lips like I've been saying it my entire life. I just learned it yesterday – picked it up from when Mum said it and told me what it meant. I absolutely love learning new words. My mind sucks them up like a vacuum, and my tongue spits them out whenever possible.

"A pact?" Draco's face screws up in confusion.

"It's like a promise, only bigger! It's like this: I'll cut my hand, and you'll cut yours, and then we'll hold hands and make a promise. And you can't ever break it or else you'll die or something. Well, you won't die, but I think something bad happens."

"Cut our _hands_?" Draco frowns. "But why?"

"Because it's a _blood promise_," I sigh impatiently, rolling my eyes like he should've known that, like he should've studied for the pop quiz. "Muggles do it or something. Anyway, we've just got to find some sort of sharp rock to do it with… ooh, here!"

The rock is about the size of my closed fist, and has a jagged edge that looks like it's lined with teeth. I place it against my open left palm without checking Draco's reaction to it all, biting my lip in concentration and pushing down on the tip of the rock. Hard.

Harder.

Harder still.

I let out a yelp of pain as a bead of crimson blood bubbles up through my skin, a stinging erupting in my hand as I draw the rock-knife diagonally down my palm, through the middle of my hand. It isn't a long or very deep incision – maybe only an inch or two long, but it draws rivers of blood down my hand. Streams of red are seeping steadily from the wound now, and I hold in tears that threaten, gesturing for Draco to hold out his hand.

He complies hesitantly, extending a quivering left hand. I like to think that he's scared but he trusts me to do it anyway, but I know he probably just doesn't want to look like a chicken. I repeat the process, ignoring my stab of guilt at his shout of pain, and smile at the end of it, my cheeks a little tight from the violent pangs coursing through my hand.

We place our palms together in front of our faces like a high-five, our blood and winces mixing together. I let out a short laugh, and Draco lets out one of his own. Pretty soon, we're laughing hysterically as blood runs down our arms and drips off our elbows. Our fingers entwine as we make our pact.

"Do you, Draco Malfoy, promise _never, ever_ to end up like your parents?" I say through my waves of roaring laughter. He nods through his own waves of roaring laughter.

"And do you, Aria Desere, promise never to end up like _your_ parents?"

I nod, my laughter slowly fading to a complete, sober stop, and continue with, "And if You-Know-Who comes back and _begs_ you to work for him, do you promise never to join him?"

"I promise," he says just as solemnly, "If You-Know-Who begs _you_ to work for him, do _you_ promise never to join him?

I know with my heart and soul that the answer I give is the truth, plain and simple.

I know with my heart and soul that I'll never betray this pact, this blood promise.

I know with my heart and soul that I will never betray Draco, so long as I live.

"I promise."

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><p>If only we'd known.<p> 


	10. The Real World

Whachow! A day early! Can I get a booyah?

Nothing much to say today except enjoy the chapter! I'm so happy I got this out today; I wasn't expecting to finish it 'till Tuesday night. But I forced myself to sit down at my desk, whiz through my homework, and then got my ass to the grindstone and finished the chapter!

**A special thanks to these lovely people** who reviewed, favorited, or added this story to their story alerts: **mecherry** (who has made my day multiple times! Ooh, I love people that review more than once!); **AdonCa **(another mulitple reviewer); **Puplover43**; **whitewhite**; **Electric-Aura** (muultippllee reviiewwerrr); **Twilight Woods** (who has reviewed more times than I can count); and last but not least, **Josepheus.**

So sorry if I haven't messaged you about your review or replied to a message! Lordie, I've just been busy :/ Y'know, procrastinating and all that. But anyway, I will get on that... tomorrow, probably, because I'm dead beat right now. And I promised a picture of a cat for anyone that left a particularly long review. Have no fear, you will receive your cat!

And thanks to everyone that actually reads these really long author's notes. I know they're probably a huge pain in the ass to read, so thanks to anyone who's actually kept reading long enough to get to this point. But really, you can stop reading this author's note right now because all I've got left is the disclaimer.

**Disclaimer:** I own nooothhinnnggg! All HP stuff is property of the amazing JK Rowling. My OCs and the plot of this fanfic are allll miiinnne :D

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><p>"<em>The power to do good is also the power to do harm." –Milton Friedman<em>

**Two-Faced [Harry Potter] Chapter Nine: Regret**

The scar burns on my palm as I slink through the halls at two o'clock in the morning, sticking close to the shadows and praying to Merlin that Mudblood's not out and about on her prefect duties of patrolling the halls for wandering students. I wouldn't be surprised if she decided to take it upon herself to pace not only her assigned corridors but the entire castle, as well.

But my mind's only half dedicated to avoiding prefects and staff members. The other half is on – you guessed it – Draco.

The Big Pact, the pledge Draco and I made to each other, is meaningless now. We've both broken our so innocently made promises. It seems silly now, making that vow when we were mere children. We knew nothing of the war, of the Dark Lord, of power. We thought we did. But we were really clueless.

That seems so obvious now. When we were ten, we thought we knew the way the world worked, backwards and forwards and upside down. We thought that because the wizarding world hated the Dark Lord, He was an evil person that was both powerful and cowardly at the same time. We were so certain that knowing that would be enough to keep us away from Him, stay out of the pull of His influence.

We were obviously wrong.

Draco might've gone his life without ever Marking his left arm. Of the two of us, he was the most adamant about not becoming a Death Eater, not becoming like our parents. Even when I was getting Marked, even as the symbol of power and Darkness was being carved into my left forearm, I thought – _knew_ – that Draco wasn't going to follow this path.

I was wrong about that, too.

I don't know for certain why he did it – got Marked, I mean. Narcissa seems to believe that he only did it because he was forced to by the Dark Lord; that He wanted repayment for Lucius's failure at the Department of Mysteries.

But the thing about being a Death Eater is you _can't_ get forced into it. Unless you've been put under the influence of the Imperius Curse, getting Marked isn't something that can be done to someone against their will. I can almost guarantee that most Death Eaters not affected by any charm or curse did it of their own free will. Anyone who says differently is either lying or has been in Azkaban too long. Getting the Dark Mark, being marked as one of the Dark Lord's servants, is something that is chosen. You have to _want_ it.

And I _did_ want it. I still do. No matter how many times I feel that pull of regret when I look down at Draco and my matching scars, I know I still want it – the power, the intimidating presence. The feeling of confirmation. Because when the Dark Lord looks at you like He's – not proud, no, He doesn't ever reach those heights – not proud but satisfied, it's like getting validated. It's like your existence has been sanctioned. He approves, therefore you exist.

I'm not sure if it's that way for all Death Eaters – maybe it is, just on different levels. Bellatrix, certainly – though I shudder to compare myself to _her_. But it's hard to imagine a brute like Greyback getting all fuzzy inside just because the Dark Lord looked at him.

It seems like it takes only a few seconds to get back to the Gryffindor common room, with my mind lost in my thoughts. The Fat Lady looks a bit peeved that I've woken her up, questioning me suspiciously about my being out so late. I lie and tell her something about not being able to sleep, and she's too tired to insist any further.

I slip into my dorm room quietly and tiptoe to bed without changing, overwhelmed with a sudden tiredness that crashes over me like a tidal wave.

My left palm burns all through my sleep.

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><p>Sunday passes without any outstanding events.<p>

Morning finds me dead tired and suffering from a drilling headache, dragging myself out of bed and into the Great Hall for a cold breakfast. The afternoon is only slightly better; Ancient Runes and Charms homework keep me inside while the sun hangs cheerily in the sky outside, taunting me. It's only once night falls and after I finish my various essays after dinner that I relax, shaking out a cramp in my writing hand and trudging up the stairs to the dorm.

I fall into bed, my body feeling like a block of lead. With my drooping eyes, I expect sleep to pull me into peace quickly and easily, without any silly counting of sheep. But as much as I hope, as many times as I try to completely empty my mind, sleep fails to find me.

Every time I start to slip away, something wrenches me back into wakefulness.

Once it's my idiotic, airheaded roommates loudly slamming the door and collapsing in a heap of giggles and whispers. What they're on about now, I don't know. All I know is that I hate the lot of them.

Then it's my Mark burning, red hot teeth sinking into the flesh of my left arm. He's angry – at who, I don't know. All I know is that I hate whoever it is.

And then my thoughts, buzzing about in my head like wasps that refuse to die. Where this headache's come from, I've no idea. All I know is that I hate whatever the cause of it is.

I eventually give up, hauling myself out of bed and throwing my robes on, flinging the door open and letting it bang against the wall, smirking maliciously as my dorm mates shout sleepily from their beds for me to keep it down. I stomp down the stairs to the common room, pulling my hair into a messy bun and slipping out of the portrait hole and into the corridor beyond.

I make it out of the castle without incident, skillfully dodging the prefects that pace the halls,

The moon is high in the sky, looming in the blackness like a watchful eye, blinking as the clouds pass over it. The air is still and cold and thick, and it feels like it's pressing down on me from all sides. My clothes feel heavy on my body, the night's stillness tightening my scarlet and gold scarf's stranglehold on my neck.

I shove my hands in my pockets and furrow my eyebrows at the ground, frowning in concentration as I fight my way up a steep, rocky hill. I stand atop it for a while, just staring down at the shimmering surface of the Black Lake before me.

In the night's moonlight, the lake truly looks remarkable. It's like a sheet of rippling ebony silk, inlaid with millions of diamonds that catch the rays of the moon's silvery light, winking and twinkling until the surface of the lake doesn't look black so much anymore as shimmering, sparkling white. The sky overhead is like a mirror, the stars in the heavens reflecting the winking and twinkling stars in the water. A line of trees separates the Black Lake from the sky, the leaves and branches throwing shadows over the rocky earth that twist and spin as the moon passes in and out of the cover of the clouds.

It's nights like these, the ones that are so breathtakingly beautiful that it hurts, that make me loathe sleep. Why should anyone have their eyes shut for a night like this one? It's such a terrible waste. A night like this shouldn't pass unseen.

I'm almost glad that I wasn't able to sleep.

I bring my legs to my chest, wrapping my arms around them and resting my chin on my knees. My right hand strays to my left, my fingers playing with my sleeve. I pull it carefully up over my elbow, shutting my eyes and running a finger lightly over the skin of my left forearm.

The flesh is smooth. With my eyes shut, it seems almost like the Dark Mark isn't there. With my eyes shut, it seems almost like I'm really Remy Turner. With my eyes shut, it seems almost like I'm a normal teenage girl.

And then my eyes open.

I'm back to the real world. The world where the Dark Mark _is_ there. The world where I'm _not_ Remy Turner. The world where I'm _not_ a normal teenage girl.

This is the real world, and it's the one I'll always be in.

But that's better, isn't it? It's stupid, getting lost to those fantasies. No, not fantasies – just stray thoughts. Just wonderings. Just what-ifs. I don't _want_ to be Remy Turner. I don't _want_ to be a normal teenage girl.

I'm right where I want to be.

Right here, I'm perfect.

Perfect.

I'm wrenched from my wandering thoughts when a rustling comes from my left. I hastily pull my sleeve back down to my wrist, whipping my head around to meet the surprised face of one Harry Potter.

I swallow my instinctual recoil and force a smile onto my face, falling ruefully back into the role of Remy Turner.

"Oh hey, Harry," I say pleasantly, choking back a swear word. "What're you doing out so late?"

"I could ask you the same thing," he returns, and I have to check twice for any note of suspicion. But his words are spoken innocently, friendly.

"Couldn't sleep," I explain a little sheepishly. At least it's the truth. "And who would want to, on a night like this one? Gorgeous, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah," Potter nods, "Nice."

I almost laugh at his awkwardness and the comicalness of his appearance. His unruly hair pokes out in places like tufts of dark grass, waving lazily in the breeze. His lightning bolt scar is just barely visible, peeking out from between strands of hair. His robes have been thrown on quickly over his pajamas, his scarf and cloak hanging disheveled on his shoulders.

This is the boy that's going to 'save' the wizarding world. What a laugh.

"So what are you doing out this late?"

"Just… I dunno, thinking," he says, throwing in a little lopsided grin. "Mind if I sit?"

"Go for it," I nod, scooting over on my little hill. "What're you thinking about?"

My question seems to catch him off guard. I backtrack quickly, sensing his discomfort and suspecting that I'm scaring him off.

"You don't have to answer that if you don't want to," I say carefully, keeping my eyes trained on the lake. "I sometimes like to keep my thoughts to myself, too."

He doesn't say anything, but he seems relieved. We sit in companionable – snort – silence, a few feet's distance between us.

"Harry," I start, licking my lips. I can never get over the way it feels to say his name. It's like when I was younger, when I'd learn a new word. The word would feel new and fresh on my tongue, almost like it was too big to fit in mouth. This feels just like that – except 'Harry' is only five letters. I've come to know him as 'Potter' in my head, so addressing him so… _nicely_ feels odd. "Would you mind if I asked you a question?"

Potter gives a short cough, obviously bracing himself for a question about the Dark Lord or his parents or the war or something. I wonder briefly how often he gets that sort of stuff pitched at him and smile a sly smile.

"How the _hell_ did you cast a Patronus your third year?" I blurt with an attempt at looking sheepish. He laughs a little, clearly not expecting _that_ question. He looks oddly relieved.

"I heard from a few other students about it," I continue, "About you teaching them your fifth year. I've tried a few times, but mine are always flops. Could you… could me show me yours? Your patronus, I mean."

"I – I suppose," Potter says with a little surprised grin. "Erm – here," he flourishes his wand, muttering _Expecto Patronum_. A silvery, misty wisp plumes from the tip, dancing in the air like smoke and slowly taking the form of a full-bodied stag, antlers and all.

"Whoa," I breathe, taken for a moment by surprise. It's real surprise – real awe. Not many Death Eaters can cast a Patronus – not even some of the older, more experienced ones like Roining and Dolohov. Severus is the only one that I know for a fact can cast one, though I've never seen his. "A stag?"

"It was my father's," he says softly, his voice barely higher than a whisper. The stag moves smoothly through the air, turning its long head to stare back at us for a moment before seeming to disappear in the wind.

"It's beautiful," I say truthfully, still staring at the spot where it vanished. I hate myself for it, but I'm impressed. As hard as I've tried, I still can't cast a full-bodied Patronus. I hate him for it, too. I try to make him_ feel_ it, feel the waves of loathe that roll from me. How can _he_ cast a Patronus?

Potter is silent, apparently oblivious to the waves of loathe, stuffing his wand back in his robes and staring out over the lake.

"To be honest, I wasn't expecting you to ask me that," he admits suddenly, glancing over at me with a small smile. "About the Patronus, I mean."

"What _were_ you expecting me to ask about?" I ask, smiling softly. The smile feels weird on my lips. I'm used to smiling widely, greeting people with a beam and laughing heartily. That's how Remy has always been – wide smile, friendly laugh, full of compliments and grins. This feels muted somehow, but more concentrated. Like instead of having to smile on all sides, I only have to smile on one now.

"Voldemort, mostly," he answers, a note of bitterness coloring his voice. I almost flinch at His name and have to keep the snarl from reaching my face. Such arrogance, throwing His name around like it's any old Muggle name. "And – y'know… the Department of Mysteries."

"Well that's stupid," I snort, looking out over the lake to hide the flash of anger in my eyes. I almost forgot about the Department of Mysteries. But how could I? We lost many Death Eaters during the battle. Too many.

I can feel his eyes on me, burning with curiosity. I smile inwardly. I intrigue him; Audra was right. I _do_ have a leg up on the other girls, even if I'm not exactly looking for the same sort of shallow attention they are. "If you wanted to talk about it, you'd be telling the story every night in the common room. You… you don't much like the spotlight, do you?"

Potter gives a short, barking laugh. "How could you tell?"

I laugh a little, shaking my head. "It's sort of obvious – at least, to anyone that's got half a brain. Which I guess rules out most people nowadays. They've all lost their minds to panic.

"Anyway," I shift my weight, turning to look at him, "Enough of that. Tell me about yourself, Mr. Potter. I mean, other than all that 'Boy Who Lived,' 'Chosen One' rubbish."


	11. Like Magic

Few sort of important things to say (please read all of this no matter how boring it may be):

**1)** Sorry for being AWOL for the past week... I got a huge amount of homework (bet you're tired of hearing that excuse, huh?), then I got sick, then I had a cross country meet... and right about the time I got over the flu, I got hit with another one. So basically, I only got around to doing some serious writing _today_. And I finished the chapter. And it's longer than all the ones before it. So there's that, right?

**2)** I am so very embarrassed. Not only did I forget to thank someone for reviewing (sorry again about that, Remy .Potter!), but I also had to ask someone if they'd reviewed more than once (sorry again, the world is full of magic!). As a result of said embarrassment, I've finally made a list of the people that've reviewed, alerted, favorited, etc. Sooo... now I will never forget to thank anyone! Bwahahah!

**3)** I'm really not very happy with this chapter. I spent about two hours editing it. I deleted about half of it, rewrote it, and added a few new sections and I'm still not 100% satisfied with it. But eh, that's life, right? Anyway, I felt like I needed to get the chapter out, so... here it is! And it's about 1,000 words longer than all the others!

**4)** Lately I've had people asking me how I write the story. Like, no joke, two different people have messaged me about this. I've forgotten who you are (my email doesn't tell me who's messaging, it only says "Hey, you've got a message" and it'd be too hard to go back through all of them to look), and for that I'm terribly sorry, but because two different people are asking the same thing, I feel like it needs to be answered. Sooo... basically, I'll be doing a 'lil (more like huge) Author's Note at the bottom of the next chapter about how I got the idea of this story, how I go about writing and editing, etc. Soo... if you're interested, there's that.

**5)** For some reason, whenever someone's got a penname that has a word, a period, and another word, it doesn't show up when I type it. For example: Hello .Goodbye (except there wasn't a space between the 'Hello' and the period) doesn't show up when I type it and hit 'Save.' I think that's probably why, when I typed in my thanks to Remy .Potter, it didn't show up all those times... So... yeah :) If your penname has a word, a period, and a word, I have to type it word-space-period-word. I'm not misspelling it - I just have to. Just clearing that up.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but my OCs, the rest is property of the wonderlicious JK Rowling, blah, blah, blah...

**Thanks** to these awesomful people who reviewed/story alerted/favorited in the last week: **MidnightCloak160**, **mentalkid**, **BiaZinha e BieLZinho .Zabine**, **mecherry **(hooray for reviewing multiple times!), **Mask with a Truth**, **AdonCa**, **THatGurlx3**, **Remy .Potter**, **Electric-Aura**, **CierraLuv97**, and last but never least, **Twilight Woods**. If I somehow missed you even after my crazy organizing, let me know!

Without further adu, I present: Chapter 10!

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><p>"<em>Concentrated power is not rendered harmless by the good intentions of those who create it." – Milton Friedman<em>

**Two-Faced [Harry Potter] Chapter Ten: Reflexive**

When I slip back into the dorm, the sun has just barely begun to show its head over the horizon. The sky is a murky grey, streaked with dark clouds that stir with the wind. The air is thick and heavy, a misty fog hovering about the castle. The beauty of the night before is gone, replaced with the bodings of a storm.

It's funny, how something that had been so breathtaking, something that had seemed so untouchable, could be pushed away so easily. The night had seemed so permanent, like that peace and stillness would never leave. But it's gone, taken away with the moon and stars.

Something about that makes me angry.

It shouldn't have been swept away so easily, the night's innocence. Something like that should be allowed to stay.

No, I was wrong – It doesn't make me angry.

It makes me sad, somehow. Sad and cold.

My mind is whirring, too fast. It's like my brain has been supercharged, working on all motors. Thoughts whiz by like bullets. Each one just barely registers before it's gone and another has taken its place.

For a moment, the dominating thought in my mind is about the night's innocence, how it's been swept away. How unfair that is.

The next second, I find myself wondering why Potter was walking about the grounds of Hogwarts that late at night – and why Merlin had it that he was out at the same time I was.

Then that one's gone and there's another nagging question – what was he thinking about? Something to do with his meeting with Dumbledore? His suspicions of Draco? The fight at the Department of Mysteries?

And then another one arrives – a question that sends my skin crawling uncomfortably, one that feels as if it's being bellowed into my ear by a giant. It seems to tug at my mind, demanding attention. Demanding an answer that I can't seem to find.

Why the hell was it so _easy_?

Falling back into the role of Remy Turner was simple – like flipping a switch. Easy.

_Why_?

I thought before that it was because Potter was so important; that because I knew that he would be the most crucial to convince, it somehow pushed me further, made it _have_ to be easier to act like the innocent, normal Remy Turner.

But now I realize that doesn't make sense.

So what _does_?

Pretending to be normal, pretending to be _muggleborn_, was like a breath of – no, not _fresh_ air, but _different_ air, if that makes sense. Acting as Remy Turner, a muggleborn girl, I didn't have to worry about always being prim, proper, and perfect. I didn't have to always check myself for my manners, my composure. It didn't feel like my mother was breathing down my neck all the time, whispering in my ear reminders of what to do and how to do it.

It was… weird.

Almost scary.

I mean, I _laughed._

It wasn't how I laugh with Draco – that easy, carefree, buoyant laugh. No, that's Draco's laugh. It's reserved for _him_. That laugh is a laugh of weightlessness, the one I let out when I'm with Draco and I don't feel tied down by all my responsibilities, like he's taken a knife and cut them away, one by one.

But this laugh – it was _loud_. I didn't think about who would hear me, what they would think of me. I didn't _think_ about _any_thing. It was reflexive – Harry said something funny, so I laughed.

This laugh wasn't weightless.

It was free, but… heavy. Weighed down by expectations.

That's what gets me most of all.

The expectations.

I went into this mission expecting Harry Potter, my greatest enemy. Harry Potter, the greatest obstacle of the war. Harry Potter, my polar opposite.

Instead, I get _this_.

Harry Potter, a normal teenage boy with hair that doesn't want to stay down and a little extra emotional baggage.

We didn't talk at all about the Dark Lord or the war – I made sure to steer clear of those topics; I didn't know what I'd say. What would be a 'normal' response? And anyway, Harry didn't seem to mind; he must get enough talk of it after what happened in the Department of Mysteries, now that everyone believes him.

After a few hours of talking, I forgot he was Harry Potter – _any_ sort of Harry Potter, the one I was expecting and the one I met. I forgot that he was my greatest enemy, the greatest obstacle of the war, my polar opposite. For a while, I was just Remy Turner and he was just Harry.

Now, coming back to reality, feeling my Dark Mark throb on my left arm as if angry about being forgotten, is jarring. Like being woken up from a dream with a bucket of icy water.

But it is also necessary – I know from experience that some dreams can become nightmares if you fall too deeply into them. One foot in the real world at all times. Keep your feet grounded when your head's in the clouds.

I don't bother undressing before crawling into bed and pulling the curtains shut around me – with my thoughts buzzing about in my head, I know I won't be getting any sleep.

Morning comes in the form of the sun's feeble rays just barely slipping in through the windows past the cover of grey storm clouds that shroud the sky. My dorm mates groan in disappointment at the day's dreariness, complaining about it being too cold to wear a skirt but deciding to anyway ("beauty is pain, girls!"). They head to the Great Hall for breakfast without uttering a word to me. Audra pointedly avoids me, probably angry about me hanging more around the Golden Trio than with her. I make a mental note to mend things with her as I trudge towards the bathroom, rubbing last night's dreaminess from my eyes.

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><p>The next month passes quickly.<p>

I don't mend things with Audra – she ignores me, I ignore her. The mission's got me busy enough without trying to make friends with her or my other silly dorm mates. Draco and I meet almost daily in the Room of Requirement, desperately brainstorming. Merlin must have something against us – the only ideas we come up with are hopeless and are botched almost instantly. Classes grow harder; as it turns out, when you're trained in nothing but the Dark Arts for most of your life, Double Transfiguration becomes your worst nightmare.

I grow closer to the Golden Trio; they seem to accept me into their group during the classes we share. The Weasley boy is a bloody idiot – I honestly can't see why Harry's become such close mates with him. My dislike for Granger only grows – not only is she a Mudblood, but she's a stuck up prat at that. Her tutoring sessions for Ancient Runes, a subject I happen to be passing with flying colors, are made up of tense silences during which I imagine what it would be like to chop her head off.

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><p>"I'm telling you, Draco, it's not going to work," I argue stubbornly, looking doubtfully at the package on the table. "It's pathetic and you know it."<p>

"Well, we haven't got many other ideas, have we?" he snaps bitterly, throwing me a dirty look. "Or have you come up with some sort of brilliant plan and haven't told me?"

I snort. "Draco, _any_ plan would be brilliant compared to this one."

"Shove off," he mutters, pushing me with his shoulder and striding forward, leaning his palms on the wooden table and heaving a heavy sigh. "Merlin, why can't the old oaf just drop dead?"

"Yeah, that'd help us a whole lot, wouldn't it?" I muse, sinking into an old, sagging armchair. "How old do you think he is, anyway?"

Draco shrugs, running a hand through his platinum blond hair and tugging on the ends of it, so hard I think for a moment that he's trying to pull it out. "Too old."

"It's sort of creepy, actually, not knowing... Anyway, we're losing the subject," I shake my head to clear my thoughts, forcing my mind to return to the mission.

"So let me get this straight," I start, running through the plan in my mind again. "We're going to put Madame Rosmerta, the bartender at The Three Broomsticks, under the Imperius, get _her_ to Imperius Katie Bell, who will then take this necklace and somehow make it into Hogwarts, give it to Dumbledore, and we'll watch from around a corner when he drops like a stone. Now, if that doesn't sound bloody mad to you, then I'm seriously questioning your mental health."

"Well, what's your better idea?" Draco hisses, rounding on me, his stormy grey eyes full of venom.

"Hey," I throw my arms up in surrender, "You already shot down my better idea."

"That's because your idea was stupid."

"More stupid than this one?" I hum skeptically. "C'mon, it'd be unexpectedly straightforward! Dumbledore would never see it coming!"

"We're _not_ doing it, Aria."

"We should at least _try_ it!"

"And what happens if we get caught?" Draco reasons, arching a fine eyebrow. I give him a look that says, _we won't_, and he rolls his eyes. "So you're telling me that if we jump out from behind a statue and _Avada_ _Kedavra _Albus Dumbledore, we won't get caught?"

I pause for a moment, then frown, grumbling, "Well, when you put it like that…" I cross my arms over my chest, sighing. "Fine, we'll stick with your plan. But mark my words, it won't work."

"The Hogsmeade trip's tomorrow," Draco says, ignoring my words. "You—_you_ have to Imperius Madame Rosmerta, get her to Imperius Katie Bell."

"What? Why me?" I gape, "It's your stupid plan, you do it!"

"Why? Got plans?" Draco sneers, his lip curling. "Romantic date with Potter?"

"Shut up," I hiss, "Don't make me vomit. I just don't understand why it's got to be me – "

"I've got detention with McGonagall," he mutters angrily, so softly I almost don't catch it. A grin spreads over my lips, the heaviness of our conversation before forgotten.

That's what it's like with Draco – one minute we're talking about how to murder the headmaster of our school, the next we're laughing about what it would look like if Goyle and Pansy had kids.

"What? I couldn't quite catch that, Draco, you're going to have to speak up," I say gleefully as Draco looks up, his grey eyes narrowing.

"You heard me," he spits, his pale cheeks flushing.

"No, can't say I did," I singsong, blinking innocently. "C'mon now Draco, speak up."

"I got detention. With McGonagall," he bites, gritting his teeth.

"Oh well, don't have to shout now," I mock, still grinning.

"_Anyway_," I continue before he has the chance to respond, returning to seriousness, "So you want me to Imperius Rosmerta? Easy enough. But how do you know Katie'll actually make it to the castle with the necklace? Do you honestly think her friends are going to let her take a mysterious package in with her? And not notice that she's been Imperiused? The necklace isn't even going to make it into the castle, even if Katie gets it there – Filch's scanning everyone for Dark objects with Secrecy Sensors."

"I'm not counting on it actually _making_ it to Dumbledore," Draco explains, smirking cockily. "I'm just seeing how far it'll get. If Katie gets the necklace up to the castle without incident, it's worth another go. If she doesn't, we'll find a different way."

I nod a little, then frown. "Harry's beginning to suspect. I don't know anything definite… he whispers a lot with those other two but they all clam up whenever I'm around. But if this fails and Katie or someone else gets cursed, Harry'll bring it up with Dumbledore. But then again, even if he does, the chances anyone will believe him are slim, but – "

"Since when do you call him Harry?" Draco cuts in, crossing his arms over his chest accusatorially and leaning back against the table. I stop abruptly, my eyes snapping up to meet his.

"Er—what?"

"Just then," Draco jerks his chin out. "You called him Harry. When did that start happening?"

"Oh… uh, habit, I guess," I say lamely, flinching at how stupid it sounds. I cough, continuing, "Y'know, calling him 'Harry' to his face and all… must be sticking."

"Right," he says, drawing out the word doubtfully. "Just – don't get too comfortable with him, Aria."

"Why not, Draco?" I tease halfheartedly with a smirk to lighten the mood, "Jealous?"

His eyes move from where they were fixed on something behind me to lock with mine, darkening and boring into mine. My pathetic attempt at easing the tension in the room is forgotten, my smirk slipping away slowly. My breath catches in my throat as I resist the urge to squirm under his piercing gaze.

"Maybe," he replies coolly, his arms still crossed.

I snap out of my trance at his words, shifting uncomfortably in my armchair. "You should stop that," I say, noting with relief that my voice doesn't wobble like my heart is.

"Stop what?" Draco murmurs, arching an eyebrow. He's still staring at me.

"Making me nervous," I answer slowly, swallowing the cement-like lump in my throat. How can he still affect me like this, even after those months of me avoiding him and him avoiding me?

"I make you nervous?" he repeats, sounding a little amused. A smirk twists at the corner of his lips, the same smirk I've seen so many times before. But still it makes my heart thud a little louder.

"Yeah, and you should stop."

"What if I don't want to?"

"Well, then," I start, but blush as I realize I haven't got anything to say.

"Er – " I cough, changing the subject quickly, "Anyway, about the plan. What if I – " I stop, a sudden onslaught of worries hitting me. "Oh Merlin, what if I get caught when I'm Imperiusing Rosmerta? Or if she gets caught while she's giving the package to Katie? That could be traced back to us – "

"Relax, Aria," Draco rolls his eyes. "You're not going to get caught."

"Easy for you to say," I grumble, "You're not the one that's going to be doing it. What if the Imperius Curse doesn't work? Like, if I don't do it right and it wears off or something. Or if Rosmerta remembers it was me? Or if Katie remembers?"

"C'mon," Draco moans exasperatedly, "The Imperius Curse isn't that hard. I mean, you've used it before, right?"

A silence ensues. I look away, suddenly embarrassed. "Well, n-not exactly – "

"What do you mean, not exactly?" Draco cries, astonished. "You're a Death Eater! You've _been_ a Death Eater for – what, half a year! You're telling me you haven't used the Imperius?"

"I'm not exactly an 'Imperio' type person, Draco!" I retort, my head whipping around to glare at him.

"Really? What sort of person are you, then?"

I look away again, this time not out of embarrassment but shame. It takes a few moments to order my thoughts. I eventually say slowly, "I—I was more of a, um… y'know, I liked 'Crucio' m-more than the Imperius."

I can feel Draco's eyes boring into the side of my head. He inhales slowly, then lets all the air out in one go. "Oh. Right then."

I refuse to look up to meet Draco's eyes, feeling the judgment in them. I knew that he knew that I used the Cruciatus Curse; I suppose he didn't know how much. I cough awkwardly, changing the subject again. "Anyway, I just think we need more time to think through the plan before we put it into action."

"We're out of time, Aria," Draco sighs, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "We need for this to happen over the Hogsmeade trip – there's no other opportunity to test it. After that, we can try other plans. But this one _has_ to happen now."

"Too many things can go wrong," I remind him, hauling myself out of the armchair and walking towards the table. The necklace is lying on a sheet of velvet inside a black box, its opal jewels shining in even the dim light of the Room of Requirement. It's beautiful, in a Dark sort of way. Its light turquoise stones are inlaid in silver casings that form a thick chain. I extend my left hand, as if to touch it, letting my index finger hover above the stones.

"It's funny," I say, my voice just barely above a whisper, "how something so beautiful can be so dangerous."

"Not really," Draco replies, his voice sounding closer than expected. I didn't notice him come to stand behind me. His arm drifts forward, the sleeve of his left forearm grazing mine, and he picks up the lid of the case on the desk. It's almost a shame to see the necklace disappear from view as he places the lid over it. "There are plenty of things like that."

I drop my hand, standing for a moment, just staring at the black box on the table. Draco's still standing behind me, his chest just barely touching my back.

"If… If Katie Bell or Madame Rosmerta touches the necklace, they'll be killed," I whisper solemnly. There's an unsettling silence for a while.

"Probably," Draco finally whispers back.

"Have you talked to her before? Katie, I mean," I ask, still staring at the box. I can almost feel the waves of Dark energy it's giving off, wafting through the air and seeping into my skin and making my left arm burn and tingle.

"A few times," he answers. "None of them pleasant."

"Is that why you chose her?" I inquire, my voice taking on a bitter edge.

"Of course not," he snarls, sounding insulted.

"Why did you, then?" I turn, staring up at him, all too aware of how close we are. "Choose her, I mean. Hundreds of kids in the school and you picked her. Why?"

Draco shrugs, looking a little helpless. Our voices are still just whispers, barely making it through the thick air of the Room of Requirement. "I've watched her, these past few weeks. She just seemed like the person to do it."

"What happens, then? If she touches it? She gets killed and we swallow the guilt and move on?"

"We're Death Eaters," Draco says softly, his voice breaking on the last word. "It doesn't matter."

"Right," I whisper, smiling softly. "Doesn't matter. Because we're heartless bastards."

"We're not heartless," he says, shutting his eyes. I want to, too – shut my eyes against the world, against the judgments and assumptions and responsibilities. "We're just…"

"We're just fighting for a cause," I finish for him, nodding softly. I look down at my left palm, at the pale scar streaking diagonally across the surface.

"Draco," I start, brushing a finger over the line. His eyes open, and he follows my gaze, his eyes darkening upon seeing the scar. "Do you remember our pact? From when we were kids?"

He nods, not saying a word. He's remembering, I can tell. Remembering that day in the meadow, when we made our pledges and promised each other things we couldn't give.

"What if we made a new one? A new pact?" I say softly, my voice dropping yet more.

He's silent for a while, still staring down at my palm. "What sort of pact?"

"I dunno," I whisper. "One that… One that we won't give up on. What if we promised each other that – " my voice breaks. "That no matter what, we're on the same side. That no matter what either of us does in this war, no matter how terrible it is – "

"We'll still be the same," he finishes, taking almost my exact words. That's why we're best friends – we think the same things. We don't need to explain ourselves. We just know.

This time, our vow isn't verified by a cut to the palm. This time, it's not a blood promise.

"I promise," Draco whispers, his eyes finally leaving my scar and meeting my eyes. I'm struck again by just how beautiful he is. It shouldn't be possible.

"I promise," I echo, my lips curving upwards into a little smile.

We don't cut our palms to ratify this pledge.

This time, our promise is sealed with a kiss.

* * *

><p>"Are you going to Hogsmeade, Remy?"<p>

I look up from my plate of eggs and toast to find Parvati Patil looking expectantly at me from across the breakfast table. Lavender Brown is sitting on the other side of her, looking more interested in the curve of Ronald Weasley's lips than my answer.

"No," I answer promptly, swallowing my surprise at her question and offering a rueful shake of my head. "I've got a Transfiguration essay due soon… turns out my tutor wasn't covering everything she should have these past few years."

She smiles sympathetically before turning back to her gossip with Lavender Brown, leaving me to resume my eavesdropping on the Golden Trio's conversation. They've seated themselves a few feet away, their words just barely making it to my ears over the clatter of breakfast time at Hogwarts.

"The Death Eaters can't all be pure-blood," Hermione's saying. "There aren't enough pure-blood wizards left. I expect most of them are half-bloods pretending to be pure. It's only muggleborns they hate, they'd be quite happy to let you and Ron join up."

I almost snort. Preposterous – _most _of us Death Eaters being half-bloods? Sure, there are a few, but it's no secret. Groafer never hears the end of it from Yaxley and Gregorof, and Jarring was put through hell after his blood lineage came out. But the rest of us are as pure as the Dark Lord himself.

"There is no way they'd let me be a Death Eater!" Ron argues vehemently. "My whole family are blood traitors! That's as bad as muggleborns to Death Eaters!"

"And they'd love to have me," Harry says sarcastically. "We'd be best pals if they didn't keep trying to do me in."

I almost laugh with Weasley and Granger at that, but stifle it with a sausage. They exchange a few words with Ginny Weasley about something that I assume won't interest me, so I tune out and return to my breakfast.

* * *

><p>"<em>Imperio<em>," I mutter, watching in slight awe as Madame Rosmerta drops the wand she'd been using to levitate a bag of trash. She stops abruptly, swaying slightly, a dazed look taking over her pretty face.

I step from behind the pile of garbage I was crouched behind, keeping my wand raised and locked on the center of her forehead. Her eyes don't seem to register that I'm there, staring blankly at me. I pray to Merlin that this will work.

"Sometime today, Katie Bell will walk into the Three Broomsticks. When she goes into the girl's bathroom, place her under the Imperius Curse and give her this package," I pull out the necklace, now wrapped. "Make sure that _no one_ is around. You will instruct her to take the package back to the Hogwarts castle and speak to no one of it. Tell her not to tell _anyone_ where she got it. Once inside the Hogwarts castle, she will give the package to Albus Dumbledore. Understood?"

Rosmerta looks a bit like she's drunken too many Firewhiskeys, swaying on her feet and nodding dazedly. A loose smile has spread over her lips as she moves towards the back door of the Three Broomsticks, pulling it open and walking smoothly inside.

I let out a sigh of relief.

Now all I've got to do is watch.

* * *

><p>"Shit," I pace the Room of Requirement, cursing into the empty air, my fists clenched at my sides. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, <em>shit<em>. I told him it wouldn't work."

* * *

><p>That night, the curtains around my bed feel as if they're closing in on me. The blankets feel like weights, pulling me down. My pillows feel suffocating.<p>

I force myself to think of other things. Shut my eyes and think of other things.

_Draco_.

The kiss in the Room of Requirement was like the thousands of others we've shared. It felt reassuringly normal, something constant amidst all the other uncertainties.

My thoughts return to Katie Bell.

The way she screamed, rose into the air like an angel of death.

_Draco_.

_His breath was hot as it fanned out on my cheeks. He smelled of that familiar, expensive cologne. The smell that haunted my dreams for so long._

She wouldn't stop screaming.

_His hands rested on my hips, pulling me into him. Mine wound their way around his neck, pulling him into me. Closing the gap._

She just – kept – screaming.

_The kiss was like a spark._

I gasp, my eyes snapping open.

_The kiss was like a dream._

I killed Katie Bell.

_The kiss was like magic._


	12. Moments

I am a terrible human being.

So sorry for not having this out sooner, especially after I promised a speedy update... I got attacked with various colds, homework projects, cross country races, gymnastics meets, etc. Anyway. It's here.

**Thanks SO much to** the following people who reviewed/alerted/favorited. Again, sorry to you guys who were so awesome and got this crappy update in return.**: Gasanechi, Simflyer, Salutation, HoneyLovesCake, whitewhite, mecherry, CierraLuv97, Remy-Potter, Electric-Aura, Me (anonymous), Twilight Woods, the world is full of magic, Beatrix Kiddo, **and last but not least, **trickst3r-97**. (that's just in order of when they did what).

I'm really sorry if you've messaged/reviewed and I haven't responded yet. I've just lost track of who messaged me and whether not I replied. So. If you reviewed and I didn't reply, please read the message at the bottom of this post.

**Disclaimer**: This is only a fanfiction; all characters other than my OCs are property of JK Rowling.

**Note:** This chapter didn't really turn out as good as I'd hoped. I was thinking something more spectacular than this, but this is as good as I can do right now. I've been in kind of a crappy mood these past few weeks so it was sort of hard to write a cheery scene here. But anyway. Here ya goes :) Hope you enjoy.

**Regular-ish updates after this week. Promise :) No, really this time. Promise. Updates once a week or once every two weeks.

* * *

><p>"<em>When the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace." –Jimmi Hendrix<em>

**Two-Faced [Harry Potter] Chapter Eleven: Rewind**

**The Third Missing Piece**

**ELEVEN MONTHS AGO**

**December 20, 1995**

Winter has always been my favorite season.

When the snow is falling, coating everything with a layer of pure white, I feel almost raw. Like the world has ended, been destroyed, and rebuilt again. Innocent and clean. New.

If I had my way, I'd spend the entire four months of snowfall just spinning about in circles, head tilted up to the sky, arms outstretched, and eyes wide open. No way would I miss even a second of it.

When covered in snow, the grounds of the Desere Mansion are, without even the slightest doubt, the most breathtaking thing I've ever laid eyes on. Even Spain in its grandest season can't compare. And after five years of homesickness, of missing this very sight, I plan to soak up as much of it as possible.

On the west side of the grounds is a patch of forest that stretches for miles and miles. During the warmer seasons, it's like a green patchwork quilt lain over the ground. But right about now, it's just a sea of raised white peaks, the dark green of the pine leaves just barely peeking out from under the piles of snow. To the east lies the lake, sparkling and glittering in the summer; a sheet of ice in the winter. At this time in the morning, the ice is a perfectly flat surface without a crack or blemish, untouched and perfect.

And it's even more astonishing at night.

When the sun sets and gives way to the moon, the towering snow-covered pine trees take on an almost hauntingly regal feeling, and the frozen lake looks as if it's glowing in the dim light of the moon and stars. The vines that spiderweb up the walls of the mansion are bare and leafless, and are like shelves to the snow, making it look like silvery fingers are creeping across the stone.

It's not hard to believe, spinning in circles in this white wonderland, that it's just me, alone in the world. That I'm free – free of responsibilities, free of worries, free of life.

That is, until –

"Aria! Come inside, I won't have you catching cold before the Malfoys get here!"

– And that's my cue.

My arms drop limply to my sides as I turn, my eyes landing on the door of the mansion. Mother is standing in the archway, a stern look on her pale face. It's a look of commanding, one that tells me I've got about three seconds to make my way to the door.

Ariana Desere is quite beautiful, so I've been told. Or – she was, before all this. Before Father got sent to Azkaban and she had to take on his responsibilities. Now that she's been Marked, pronounced a fully fledged Death Eater, the lines in her face have grown deeper, and her skin has turned a grayish undertone. Try as she may to hide them, I can still catch a few grey hairs growing amidst her light brown locks.

I trudge slowly to the door, ducking Mother's gaze and stepping into the entrance hall.

"Get yourself dressed," she commands, smoothing out her dress, "The Malfoys will arrive in an hour. And – wear that blue gown. The dark sleeveless one."

I nod placidly with a "Yes, Mother" and hold back a roll of my eyes as I stifle the urge to fly up the stairs, forcing myself to take them one step at a time, my posture rigid and my chin high in the air. I can feel Mother's eyes on me, appraising me. Making sure I'm doing my duty and acting like a dignified lady. I round a corner at the top of the stairs and, once out of sight, tear down the hallway in a most undignified, unladylike manner.

My insides buzz.

The news that Draco and his family are calling for dinner always sends a zing down my spine. It's the only time the house doesn't feel too big and too empty. When the halls are filled with the gossip of Mother and Narcissa, and when Draco and I are laughing and chasing each other through the rooms, it doesn't feel like I'm being swallowed by the almost vacant dollhouse filled with statues and portraits and fine china.

On nights when it's just my mother and I, the Desere Mansion feels like it's a maze. It feels too winding and too large for two people. Our evenings are filled with silence; Mother stays on her end of the mansion doing Merlin knows what, and I stay on mine.

Mother and I have never got on all that well. There are moments when we're perfectly happy when each other, rare times when we understand each other a little. But most of the time, we stay out of each others' way. It just works better.

* * *

><p>I growl in frustration, cursing my reflection in the mirror.<p>

My hair hangs limply about my face, strands of it tangled and matted, the result of several unsuccessful attempts to tame it into an elegant bun.

"Why can't you just work with me?" I ask a rebellious lock of hair, tugging on the end of it. I let go and drop my head onto the desk with a groan. My hair chooses the worst days to hate me.

"Head up, you'll ruin your makeup," a sharp voice calls from the other end of the room. My head snaps up, and I'm greeted with the sight reflected in my mirror of my mother standing in the doorway, her usual stern frown on her face. She crosses the room in a few brisk steps, taking my hair in her hands impatiently. "Here, let me."

Her fingers weave through my hair, pinning and twisting strands with sure quickness. I watch in amazement as the tangles are pulled apart and the pieces that seemed so unmanageable are combed carefully into place. Mother steps back, surveying me with a critical eye.

"Stand for me, Aria," she says, still watching me with those hard, dark eyes. I comply, standing from the mirror and turning to face her, pivoting left and right as she commands. Pulling off her right glove, she brushes a finger across my cheek, smoothing out the line of blush on my cheekbone.

Something in her eyes softens as she steps back again, running her eyes over me in my dress. "Beautiful," she murmurs, so softly that I almost don't catch it. I wonder for a moment if I was even meant to hear it.

"The gold earrings are nice," she says, shifting her gaze to the precious metal doves adorning my earlobes. "They bring out your eyes. They're like honey, you know. Or – "

"Liquid gold," I finish for her, smiling a little. "You've said before."

The corners of her lips lift into a little smile. It's an odd sight, seeing my mother smile. At least, seeing her smile at _me_. I've seen her smile before, when she was with Narcissa or Father. But I generally get no smiles; only scolding frowns and stern words. We stand for a while, looking at each other. A sort of warmth permeates the air, the tingling sense that we're in the middle of one of those rare moments of understanding, one of the rare times when we understand each other and are content. That's when I see it – what people were saying about Mother being beautiful. She is, really. Her beauty's just overpowered by fatigue and frown lines.

With one last rueful smile, she turns away, gliding towards the door. She stops in the archway, turning back slightly. Her expression is smoothed out again, the smile gone.

"Straighten up, Aria. I won't have you slouching like a peasant."

Just like that, the fatigue and frown lines are back, the moment passed.

* * *

><p>"Hey Draco," I start, staring up at the ceiling. "Have you ever met your grandparents?"<p>

Draco looks over, arching an eyebrow and giving me weird look. "Why?"

I shrug, still watching the cracks that spiderweb across the ceiling of my bedroom. From where we're laying on the tiled floor of my room, the high arching ceiling looks like it's hundreds of miles away, and I'm looking at it through a telescope. All of the rooms in the Desere Mansion have high ceilings – it's a mark of status or something like that. Come to think of it, I don't know a single pureblood family that doesn't have rooms that are like two levels without a floor in between.

"I dunno. Just curious," I respond after a while, a little absently.

"Well, yeah," he answers, still watching me with an odd expression. "A few times. Merlin, you're random today."

"You should be used to that by now," I laugh, rolling onto my side to face him. My expression grows serious again. "What are they like? Your grandparents?"

"Old," Draco says, smirking. I roll my eyes with a laugh, giving him a pointed look. He shrugs, turning away and copying my position earlier, looking up at the ceiling. "Like my parents, I guess," he says, bitterness seeping into his voice. "Not hard to see where my father got his personality. Anyway, why're you asking?

I'm hesitant to answer. "I – " I stop, rolling over and staring at the ceiling again. "I don't think I've ever met my grandparents. I mean, I've seen pictures, but…"

"Maybe they're dead," he says bluntly. Then he seems to realize that his reasoning is ranging a little far on the insensitivity scale. "Erm – sorry."

"It's fine," I wave him away. "I know they're not dead, though – at least, not my mother's parents; I don't think they're dead. Father used to talk about his all the time, but they could've died during the time he's been… away. But Mother's never talked about her parents much… or any part of her childhood, really. Actually, now that I think about it, I don't think I've ever seen pictures of them – my mother's parents, I mean."

Draco yawns exaggeratedly, turning his head to face me. "This conversation's _really_ just _riveting_," he drawls sarcastically. "I'm going to sleep, but you can continue if you want."

"… Shut up."

* * *

><p>My teeth chatter as I trudge away from the house, knee-deep in snow. Pulling my hat further down over my ears and my scarf a little tighter around my neck, I turn to face Draco, who's only managed to make it a few feet from the door.<p>

"Merlin, Draco," I shout over the wind, laughing at his murderous expression, "Move your ass faster!"

He throws me an exasperated look, gesturing at the snow at his feet, his retort lost in the wind. I snort, ambling back over to him and grabbing his elbow, ignoring his protests and hauling him across the yard.

"Y'know, for a big-shot fifth year, you're sort of a baby," I tease, still dragging him behind me. "You look like you just shat your pants."

"Look who's classy today," he sneers sarcastically, earning a punch to the shoulder. I link arms with him, tugging him forward with a grin. "Merlin, where're you taking me?"

"I'm abducting you, obviously," I answer, laughing. I sigh at his glare. "Merlin, relax. You'll find out in a second."

"You're evil."

"Yessir, I am."

"I hate you."

"You _looove_ me," I singsong.

"You're difficult."

"And you love it."

"Eh, can't deny that," he shrugs with a smirk. I answer with a laugh, tugging him forward again.

"Here." I stop at the top of a hill, where the snow is packed but still soft underfoot, flaring my arms out to the side grandly with mock fanfare. It's really two hills – a steeper one with a sort of platform at the bottom, and a smaller, sloping hill after that. It's the same hill we used to sled down in the winter when we were kids, the same hill we used to tumble down during the spring. A smile stretches over my lips at the memories.

"Merlin, I haven't been here in ages," Draco murmurs from my right, looking down the hill fondly. Our arms are still linked, our sides touching. Electricity zings through me everywhere our bodies touch.

"Yeah, same," I hum, shutting my eyes as a gust of wind blows past us, picking up strands of my hair and tugging softly on the ends. There's that feeling again – the feeling of being clean.

With every sigh of the air, it feels like everything that's been weighing me down is slowly being blown away. Worries about Father, going mad in his cell in Azkaban; the worries for Mother, going mad taking over for Father; the worries for Draco, going mad trying to live up to expectations; the worries for myself, going mad spending all my time alone in the mansion. Each of my worries feel like they're – well, not quite gone, but lighter at least. Not so suffocating.

"Hey, Draco," I start, opening my eyes, still staring down the hill. He _hm_s, cocking his head slightly and fixing his gaze on me. I turn to him, my mouth open, ready to continue. But all at once, my thoughts have left my mind and I've forgotten what I was about to ask him.

He's beautiful, really.

His eyes seem to dig into me, a mixture of grey and blue with flecks of gold and shards of silver floating about. The sun's rays, just barely filtering through the cloud cover, have turned his hair a silvery white, framing his face in a sort of halo. His skin is so pale it looks like it's been carved out of marble, his features chiseled from stone. Like those statues that the ancients used to carve – the ones of the gods. A god of winter.

My breath's caught somewhere in my throat, and my thoughts are caught somewhere in my brain. There's an odd sort of nauseous feeling stirring within me – not a bad feeling. An overwhelming one. It feels like drowning, free-falling, cartwheeling. Dizzying.

Draco arches a perfect eyebrow, a smirk quirking on his lips.

"Yes?"

"Erm – " I let out a strangled sound, snapping out of my trance and finally remembering how to breathe. My ears burn as his smirk widens. I can feel my face reddening under his stare, and my stomach churns at that damned irresistible smirk.

I give a quiet cough and do the only thing I can think of to keep myself from dying of awkwardness – I push him down the hill.

He, of course, grabs my arm with a startled shout, pulling me down with him.

We tumble down the hill together, a mess of arms and legs, each of us cursing the other's existence. I see an almost steady stream of the white of the snow, catching only flashes of the deep green of the forest and the grey of the sky.

We land in a heap of snow and leaves at the bottom of the first hill, panting with shock and adrenaline. I try not to think about what I must look like – my hat lays buried beneath a layer of snow somewhere on the hill, my scarf is too tight around my neck, and my hair falls about my face, tangled and littered with bits of leaf and snow. Draco's not in much better shape – he's lost his hat, and his scarf's been unwound. His black coat is dotted with clumps of white, and his hair sticks up at odd angles.

Needless to say, he still looks bloody brilliant.

"You did _not_ just do that," he says slowly, fixing me with a glare, though it's made slightly less intimidating by the laughter that threatens to pull his lips into a smile.

"Well sir, it appears I did," I reply, a grin spreading over my face as I haul myself out of the snow, brushing the snow from my clothes and smirking as Draco does the same, glaring at me as he pulls off a boot to shake the snow out of it. "Whatcha gonna do about it?"

"Well, you know I could – " he cuts off with a yell, leaping at me and tackling me to the ground. And then we're rolling down the second hill, a blur of blond and brown hair.

The bottom of the hill comes up to meet us all at once, the ground leveling out and sharp rocks jutting into my back. My breaths come in gasps, a little laugh bubbling up in my chest.

"You're _such _a ten-year-old," I chuckle, turning onto my side to face Draco. My smile slips from my face when I see his expression. He looks oddly focused, with his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed in concentration. "Draco? You okay?"

He doesn't answer, only keeps staring at me. Silence engulfs us. My breath puffs out in clouds and the blood roars in my ears, my heartbeat seeming to echo within me.

I've noticed lately that time has a funny way of working – right now, for instance, it's slowing down. Seconds are inching by, seeming more like hours than just moments. Everything seems spaced out, rearranged and shuffled. Rolling down the hill a few minutes ago – feels like an eternity ago. The dinner with the Malfoys last night – millions of years in the past. Things are moving so slow but, at the same time, so fast. Too fast.

One second, I'm trying to decipher Draco's piercing stare, the next I'm wondering why he's moving closer. And then I'm wondering why he isn't moving faster.

There's that weird sensation again – the dizzying, drowning one. The world is sharp and clear around me, every detail defined and precise. But the sounds have gone; the rustle of the trees and the whisper of the wind have gone mute.

He smells like he's always smelled – a mixture of peppermint and expensive cologne. It's the smell I grew up with, the smell I missed for five years. He reaches a hand out, his fingers just barely grazing my cheek as he brushes a strand of hair out of my face, his eyes still holding mine. His breath fans out onto my cheeks and neck, sending a shiver down my arms and raising the hairs on the back of my neck.

And then – just when everything seems to be moving quickly, like a second's been condensed into a millionth of a second – it all slows back down. The world stops again. Freezes. It all moves in segments that seem to take forever.

Draco's eyes aren't on mine anymore. His gaze has dropped lower on my face, lingering on my lips. The smirk I've become so familiar with is nowhere to be found, and the arrogance that so often clouds his eyes is gone.

But – I've spoken too soon.

He leans forward and his breath mingles with mine as he pauses, his face just a centimeter from mine. That infamous smirk pulls up at the corner of his lips.

There's something in that smirk that I love – I can't place it, but there's something in it that makes electricity zip down my spine. It's the kind of smirk you want to smooth out, the sort of smirk you just want to kiss away.

So I do.

I close the gap.

* * *

><p>I'll let y'all imagine for yerselves what happens after that ;) I didn't feel like writing out the whole kiss, so I left it at that. Because, y'know, kisses (and other such steamy scenes) are really awkward to write. Especially when your parents are in the room.<p>

**Message** for those of you that reviewed and I haven't responded:

First of all, I'm really sorry. I try to message everyone who reviews to show my appreciation, but I lost track of who I messaged and who I didn't during these hectic few weeks. So here's a message to everyone that was really awesome and reviewed that didn't get a thank-you message (and even if you did get a thank-you message, here's another one):

THANK YOU for reviewing. Really, it's freakin' awesome. I literally almost piss myself whenever I see a Review Alert in my mailbox. So thank you for taking time to message me what you liked or disliked about the chapter - or even if you left a few words saying "hey, this was good." Really, anything makes me happy. All of your guyses (how do you spell that? guys's? guys'? whatever. you get what i mean.) messages make me feel like I just ate an Oreo. And lemme tell you, I feel pretty dang happy when I eat Oreos.

-Flyx.


	13. Bitter Silences

**A/N:** Finally! A new chapter! Sorry for being so lame and not updating in an insanely long time. Check out my profile for more info. But, to make up for my being so lousy at updating lately, here's an extra-long chapter! It's about 1,000 words longer than my usual chapters are :D And I'm also posting this at midnight because I wanted to have it up as soon as I finished it. So that counts for something, right? :)

I meant for this chapter to involve more of Aria's relationship with the Golden Trio, especially Hermione, but I deleted it because it didn't really fit as well. Look for it in later chapters.

After this chapter, things'll be picking up and will move pretty quickly until the end :) I realize that things have been moving really slowly so far, but after these next few chapters everything will pick up pace :D

If you don't know already, I'm editing pretty much all the past chapters. I've already replaced the Prologue and chapters 1 & 2. I'm also renaming them; the Re- pattern is just too hard to keep up with.

Warning: Coarse language (T)

Disclaimer: I own only Aria Desere/Remy Turner. Everything else is property of JK Rowling, etc.

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><p>"<em>Power is not alluring to pure minds." –Thomas Jefferson<em>

**Two-Faced [Harry Potter] Chapter Twelve: Bitter Silences**

"You shouldn't have said it, Harry."

I freeze, my grip tightening on the book in my hands. The voice is unmistakable – the high pitch, the scolding tone.

Hermione Granger.

"I'm telling you, it was Malfoy!"

I almost drop the Transfiguration textbook, my eyes widening and my heart seizing. Potter _knows_? Does he have evidence? Does anyone believe him? I inch closer to the bookshelf, carefully pushing a few books aside until I can see through to the other end.

The Golden Trio is seated around an ovular table in the library, Potter clutching that Potions book he seems to love so much to his chest. The other two sit opposite him, Granger's expression anxious and critical.

"Harry – " she pauses exasperatedly, "It couldn't have been Malfoy; he was in detention with McGonagall. And even if it _could_ have been him, telling McGonagall was stupid. You can't go around accusing people without any evidence –"

My eyes shut in relief. So he hasn't got any evidence. But still – the news that Potter's going around and spouting accusations isn't good. Someone's bound to believe him sooner or later.

"But we _have_ got evidence!" he argues hotly, his eyes bright with anger and frustration.

"Not much, mate," Weasley pipes up, looking rueful and sheepish under his friend's glare. "Not enough."

Not _much_? How much is _not much_?

I grind my teeth in frustration. They don't trust me enough as it is now; they clam up and change the subject whenever I'm around. They don't completely trust Remy, a problem I've got no idea how to remedy.

"Harry, promise me you won't say anything to anyone else until you can actually _prove_ it," Granger pleads, leaning forward in her chair and resting her elbows on her knees. "And anyway, we don't even know who the necklace was meant for."

"It could've been meant for loads of people," Harry says, seeming to calm down. "Dumbledore – the Death Eaters would love to get rid of him, he must be one of their top targets."

I stiffen, but note with an edge of relief that he doesn't seem completely invested in the idea.

"Or Slughorn," he continues. "Dumbledore reckons Voldemort really wanted him and they can't be pleased that he's sided with Dumbledore."

My brows furrow in confusion. _Slughorn?_ The Potions professor? What has he got to do with anything? I've heard that the Dark Lord was trying to recruit him a while ago, sure – but that was before. We've moved on to bigger and better things. Because, really – what's a senile old pot-stirrer going to do for us?

"Or – "

"Or you," Granger finishes for him, her eyes darkening. "Harry, if that necklace was meant for you –"

"Couldn't have been," Harry says with a firm shake of his head, "or Katie would've just turned around in the lane and given it to me, wouldn't she? I was behind her all the way out of the Three Broomsticks. It would have made much more sense to deliver the parcel outside Hogwarts, what with Filch searching everyone who goes in and out. I wonder why Malfoy told her to take it into the castle?"

"Harry, drop it! Malfoy wasn't in Hogsmeade!" Granger bursts, her hair suddenly seeming to become frizzier. I feel a pang of relief and my level of respect for the girl inches up. I'm thankful that she's being reasonable – even if her reasoning is leading them in the wrong direction. Her reasoning might save Draco and me yet.

"He must have used an accomplice, then," Potter argues, all but growling in opposition. "Crabbe or Goyle – or, come to think of it, another Death Eater, he'll have loads better cronies than Crabbe and Goyle now he's joined up with Voldemort. Snape couldn't have done it, not without raising suspicion. I reckon it could be another student, actually. If Voldemort recruited one, he can get more, right? I bet half those Slytherins are lining up to work for him…"

Granger and Weasley share a looks of resignation.

"It wasn't a very slick attack, really, when you stop and think about it," Weasley points out once Potter's finished with his rambling (though not quite off-the-mark) speculations. "The curse didn't even make it into the castle. Not what you'd call foolproof."

"You're right," Granger agrees, "It wasn't very well thought-out at all."

"But since when has Malfoy been one of the world's great thinkers?" Harry says, and neither of the other two responds.

My hands roll into fists without thought. I suddenly feel the need to step out from behind the bookcase, to point out that the curse wasn't _meant_ to make it to the castle. I feel like I'm supposed to defend Draco – his honor, or something like that.

So I do.

"I beg to differ," I start, walking around the bookshelf to stand before them, leaning against the side of the bookshelf. Their heads snap up, faces alarmed and slightly sheepish. "I think the plan wasn't all that bad, actually. Suppose you're all just looking at it wrong."

Potter is the first to recover. "What do you mean?" he demands, looking intrigued and maybe a little suspicious. I slip into a seat near the table, crossing my legs on the cushion and leaning forward conspiratorially. Resting my chin on my steepled fingers, I look around at the other three, noting their wariness and interest.

"What if the necklace wasn't _meant_ to make it into the castle? What if whoever planted the necklace," I shoot a look at Harry, whose expression darkens. I send him a mental _We'll talk later_, which he seems to understand, acknowledging it with a small nod, "was just testing boundaries?"

"Testing boundaries?" Weasley questions, his freckled face baffled.

"Seeing how far the cursed necklace would get before something went wrong," I explain, stifling a _duh, idiot_. It wasn't a bad question, but I have the feeling that even the most scientific phrase would sound idiotic to me if it came from the ginger's lips.

"It's possible," Hermione admits, her brows furrowed in deep thought. "But unlikely. Why would anyone reveal themselves like that? Wouldn't someone want the element of surprise? Advertising their attack like this wouldn't help them any."

"Just a thought," I shrug, brushing my hair out of my face. "Anyway, Hermione – I've got a question for Runes. The test next week? But first I've got to talk to Harry."

Hermione's expression brightens at the mention of Runes, but withdraws again at my last few words. She throws a cagey look at Harry, conveying a message to him with her eyes. I've seen enough of their interactions by now to know that whatever anyone tells one of the Trio, all three of them are going to know before the night is over. I pretend not to notice, picking at a loose thread on my long sleeved shirt.

Their nonverbal conversation seemingly over, Hermione nudges Ron, and the two of them leave to Merlin-knows-where.

A plan has been forming during the conversation, a hunch. The other two don't seem to share Harry's suspicions of Draco – a blessing in and of itself – so naturally he'd want to talk with someone who had a similar opinion. And, as his friends don't seem to want the job, I suppose it's left up to me.

Harry and I sit in silence a few moments before I murmur, "I believe you, you know."

He glances up. "About what?"

"Malfoy."

He looks surprised. "You do?"

"Sure," I shrug easily, leaning back in the chair. "Malfoy's a suspicious little git, ain't he? You're not the only one that has seen him creeping through the halls at some ungodly hour."

He sits up, looking like a kid on Christmas. "You've seen him too?"

I nod. "Yeah," I hum, "And haven't you noticed how he always looks like the walking dead? I mean, I understand that he's pasty on normal days, but now… he's almost transparent."

I almost laugh, thinking about what Draco would say if he heard me talking about him this way. Harry still holds a serious expression, despite the laugh I expected him to get out of it.

"So," I turn to Harry, cutting through an awkward silence. I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my feet on the seat. "What makes _you_ think Draco was the one who cursed Katie Bell?"

Harry shifts uncomfortably, pushing up his glasses and looking around as if to ensure we were really alone. Then he gives me a long look, uncertainty clouding his eyes.I smile a little, reminding him that I think Draco did it, too, and so I won't judge him like his _friends_ were doing. With a slight not and a small frown, Harry launches an account of his evidence: seeing Draco at Borgin & Burkes; his suspicious exchange with Borgin; eavesdropping on Draco's conversation with Pugsy and Blaise.

"The others do have a point, though," I frown at the end of it, "Draco wasn't in Hogsmeade. But then again, you've got a point, too – he could've had another Death Eater do it."

"Which just leaves the question of _who_ the other Death Eater is," Harry said eagerly, perched on the very edge of his seat. "It could be Crabbe or Goyle, but I doubt even Malfoy would trust either of them with something like this… whatever _this_ is. That leaves either Snape or someone we either aren't familiar with or that we don't realize is a Death Eater."

"Snape was in grading papers during the Hogsmeade trip, I think," I murmur, furrowing my eyebrows. I steal Harry's words from before. "And he couldn't have done it without raising suspicion."

"Yes, that's what I was thinking," he nods, looking thoughtful as he adjusts his glasses. "So it has to be someone else, someone inside the castle; a student. If Voldemort's willing to have Malfoy as a Death Eater, he'll probably have no qualms about inducting another sixteen-year-old."

"It's probably a Slytherin," I muse, rubbing my neck to hide my amusement – at both his eagerness and the irony, "and probably a guy. And Malfoy's got a superiority complex, so he'll want someone not as clever as him, someone who'll obey him without question…"

"I can think of any number of Slytherins fitting that description," Harry mutters bitterly, pushing his glass up his nose for the third time since we've started talking. I hold back a smile at the habit.

"Well, we can narrow them down later," I say, a note of finality in my voice, "When we've got more evidence. Right now I've got a Runes test to study for. See you later, Harry."

I stand, send a smile at Harry, and leave him alone in the library.

* * *

><p>I hold back a roll of my eyes.<p>

Hermione Granger rambles on about the properties of word relationships, pointing animatedly at the symbols in the textbook and drawing figures on a separate paper. Every few words I'll nod languidly, hum at note of understanding, offer her a smile. She hasn't seemed to notice yet I'm not listening to a single word she's saying.

My right hand twitches towards my left arm, and my fingers hover a moment in the air. An itch is growing beneath the skin of my left forearm. I drag my fingernails down my sleeve in hopes of relieving it. The familiar tingling sensation warns of something that sends my stomach plummeting.

I haven't got much time.

The itch grows more vicious, sharpening into a fine, acute pain that pulsates through my skin. My left fist clenches as I hold in a whimper.

"I –" I cut in, interrupting her explanation of the conjugations of the Rune symbol for 'to shine.' I grimace as another throb of pain stabs at me. "Sorry Hermione, I think I forgot that I've got a detention with Snape," I say tightly, sitting stock-still in my seat. Every muscle in my body is contracted, strung out; I know that if I let even one relax even fractionally, a groan or a scream will peal from my throat.

"Thanks f—for helping me, Hermione. I think I get it now. Really sorry about this, for rushing out on you," I mutter, stiffly taking my books into arms. She looks a bit stunned, watching me in confusion.

"I – um – sure," she answers. I wince as I shift the books, one of them jutting into my Mark and sending a wave of pain shooting up my arm. I nod in acknowledgment and all but sprint out of the room, struggling almost blindly to a nearby empty lavatory and collapsing against the wall.

He's angry.

* * *

><p><em>Usual place. One hour.<em>

I scowl down at my sharp, slanted scrawl, glaring daggers at the paper. Four words written in bleeding ink. Their flat black font reveals not even a hint of the anger and frustration with which I'd clenched the quill. I sign the letter quickly with a single _A_ and fold it haphazardly, shoving it in the talons of an owl and watching bitterly as the bird flies off, its feathers ruffled as if disgruntled by my rough treatment.

I flex my left hand a few times, rubbing my forearm absentmindedly.

It had been a bad one.

I haven't a clue who He'd been angry at – probably Antonin or Rubrek; they screw up about once a month – but whoever it was, I hate them with a burning passion. My arm still screams with soreness, the muscles contracting in response to the earlier pain.

I wonder briefly how Draco and Severus handled it; it had to have hit them, too, and just as bad as it did me. It's a blessing that it happened on a day we don't have classes. I don't know what we would have done if we had all been in Defense Against the Dark Arts together and began shaking in pain all at once.

I glance around the empty dorm room, thanking Merlin that my dormmates are never in. They're always off doing their mysterious girly things, giggling about dreamy boys and whatnot. Audra and I still haven't spoken more than a few cordial words to each other since the first few weeks of school; she's avoiding me, and I can't blame her. I don't have time for niceties anyway.

My thoughts turn reluctantly to Granger.

I pray she didn't see anything. I run through every moment of our study session, analyzing every second of my panicked flee. Could she have seen a glimpse of the Mark when I was scratching my arm or grabbing the books? Could my sleeve have slipped up or caught on something?

But even if she had, I reason, seeing a flash of black on my arm wouldn't mean anything to her, would it? Could she already be so suspicious of me as to immediately jump to the conclusion that I'm a Death Eater? She was reluctant to believe that the Dark Lord had inducted Draco, so why should she think He wanted me?

Still, I make a mental note to tread carefully.

And be extra nice to the Mudblood.

* * *

><p>I pace the room impatiently, my hands in fists at my sides.<p>

_Where the hell is he?_

Just as the thought crosses my mind, I hear a muttered curse behind me. I whirl, coming face-to-face with a pair of startlingly grey eyes. I'm lost for a moment in them, swimming in the silvers and blues and greens and whites. Then I remember my anger.

"Merlin Draco, you're half an hour late."

"Sorry," he mutters, brushing past me. His shoulder hits mine. Neither of us apologize. "I had… stuff."

"Stuff?" I echo, arching an eyebrow. He shrugs. I frown, but let it go; we've got bigger fish to fry.

"Did you feel it?"

His expression immediately sours. "Bad one, wasn't it?"

I nod, rubbing my left arm at the thought of it. "Who do you think it was this time?"

"Rubrek, probably. It's a miracle he hasn't killed him yet."

"My thoughts exactly," I mutter, smiling a little. "Not like the world would miss him."

A stiff silence falls over us.

"Why'd you call me here?" Draco asks, getting straight to the point.

I look down at my feet. "We need to talk."

"Talk about what?" he asks innocently, but I know from the way his eyes darken that he knows exactly what I'm talking about. He knows I know; he's just hoping I'll take the hint and drop it.

I don't.

"Don't fuck with me, Draco," I hiss. "Katie Bell. We could've killed her. We might even kill her yet, if she doesn't recover. If she dies at St. Mungo's."

He flinches, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Stop."

"I know what I signed on for, Draco," I say, ignoring him, "And this wasn't it. I'm not going to go around killing innocent students just for the life of one batty old sod. And last time I checked, that fell outside the range of your moral compass, as well."

"Stop," he repeats, a little more firmly this time. His eyes are shut, but whether with annoyance, anger, or sadness I'm not sure. "Just stop. You don't think I know? Of course I know. How could I not know? The entire _bloody school_'s talking about it."

Silence.

"Harry suspects you," I say after a while. Draco scoffs.

"He told you that, did he?" he sneers, his eyes full of reproach.

"Yeah, he did, actually," I retort, narrowing my eyes. "What of it?"

"Nothing," Draco spits with a disgusted look. "It's your business what you do with crackhead Scarface."

"Damn straight it's my business," I shoot back, glaring. "Merlin, what's with you? Have I ever told you jealous isn't a good look on you?"

"I'm not jealous," he insists, his expression turning insulted. He crosses his arms and juts his chin out, reminding me of a little blond boy that used to do the same.

"Right," I snort sarcastically. "And I'm not a Death Eater."

My words are followed by silence.

Bitter silence.

I sigh, falling into the mothball-scented sofa. My anger fades from me slowly, seeming to seep into the cushions of the seat. The springs creak as Draco sinks down next to me, and I can feel his temper calming, too. I lean into him, shutting my eyes and breathing in the way our bodies fit together. He snakes an arm around my shoulders, and I turn into him, burying my face in his chest as his arms encircle me.

"So what are we doing now?"

Silence.

Thoughtful silence.

He rests his head on mine, his lips pressed against my hair.

"I have no idea."

Silence.

Just silence.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Remy. Potter (no space between the period and 'Potter') has started a sort of parallel story to this one. She's using the character Aria (with my permission, of course) as one of the characters in her story... It'll be following the storyline of my story, only she'll be having 2 of her OCs as well. Go check it out! It's called _Stronger_, and you can find it on my Favorite Stories tab. (I'm betareading it, so it's extra awesome :P haha just kidding of couse. But it is mighty awesome just the same)


	14. Another Weight Added

**A/N:** Aha! The next chapter! And you didn't have to wait several months for it! See, I'm getting better ;) And it's really long! 1,000 words over my goal :)

This chapter was originally titled "Things Unsaid" so you might notice a pattern of what she wants to say but doesn't... I was considering deleting all that, but I left it in out of pure laziness and lack of time.

Sorry if the second half of the chapter and a lot of the editing is really poorly done; I'm really short on time (my relatives are due to arrive any minute) and I really rushed the writing of it. So I apologize.

Some of the dialogue is taken directly from _HBP (_Draco's fight with Snape, etc.).

Caution: contains swearing.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and all characters therein; I own only my OC and the plot of this fanfiction. Any dialogue in this chapter that is recognizable was taken directly from _Harry Potter_, and belongs to JK Rowling, etc.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed/favorited/alerted! I don't have a list of you guys right now (again, short on time), but you all know who you are!

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><p>"<em>People demand freedom only when they have no power." –Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<em>

**Two-Faced [Harry Potter] Chapter Thirteen: Another Weight Added**

"Aria!"

It's so quiet that at first I can't be certain that I've heard it.

"Aria!"

I turn slowly, squinting into the darkness of the barely lit corridor. It couldn't be Draco – I left him a few minutes ago in the Room of Requirement; he'd be nearly halfway back to the Slytherin common room by now.

Then – a figure.

"Wh—_Blaise_?" I whisper, staring at the tall man before me, half cast in shadows. "What the hell are you doing out this late?"

"Covering for Draco. Prefect duties," he replies, a little bitterly. "I suppose you're the one he's been meeting, then?"

"What makes you say that?" I return stiffly, straightening. To be honest, I'd completely forgotten about Blaise – and Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott, come to think of it. All three of them are risks, as is anyone else that knows my real identity. I don't think Zabini or Nott will be problems; they can probably guess the gravity of this situation, and the harsh consequences that would arise upon them telling anyone. Pansy, however…

"I'm not stupid, Aria," Blaise sneers, his lip curling haughtily.

"Right," I mutter, turning away and suppressing a roll of my eyes, eager to get away from him. "I've got to be getting back, before someone notices I've gone."

"Wait a moment."

I turn back to him, my eyes raking over his face in distaste. He certainly isn't the ten-year-old boy I last saw – he's grown in the obvious respects; taller, more muscular build, matured bone structure. But he the lines of his face have also changed; his eyes have grown darker, and hold a sneering and arrogant quality that reminds me faintly of Draco, or even Lucius.

"I want to ask you something," he says slowly, studying me as I study him.

"Merlin, Blaise," I hiss and look about to make sure we're not being listened in on, "Can't this wait? We're in an open corridor in the bloody middle of the night. Find me some other time. Or I'll find you, whatever."

"Fine," he concedes, a little too quickly. "Slughorn's having a Christmas party. Exclusively Slug Club. Come with me; we can… catch up," he says – orders, almost. My eyes narrow.

"I thought you said you weren't stupid," I growl. "I'm a _Gryffindor_. A _Mudblood_, for Merlin's sake. You really think me showing up as your date at a party isn't going to look suspicious?"

Blaise snorts. "C'mon, Aria. I thought you were craftier than that. Think of some excuse. You're a new girl; you can't be that involved in house politics yet. And we're both good looking enough to get away with it."

"_Thank _you, Blaise, you're too kind," I say sarcastically, but a smirk flirts with my lips. "When is it?"

"The twentieth. Be ready at nine."

And then I am alone in the empty corridor.

* * *

><p>"What's got Ron so…" I start, looking after the steaming redhead bellowing at a huddled group of first years for looking at him. "So, uh, moody?"<p>

Harry snorts at my diplomatic choice of words, following my gaze. "We caught Ginny and Dean snogging in the hall after quidditch practice. She said…things that likely pissed him off."

I almost smirk at the note of bitterness that catches at the word _snogging_, and it's suddenly not hard at all to see that Harry's edged a little too far over the edge of friendly concern. I eye Ginny from across the common room, watching in distaste as she throws her head back to laugh at something Dean's said.

What would anyone like _her_ for?

She's pretty I suppose, but I doubt Harry's shallow enough to admire that alone. But I've also heard that she's quick with wit, stubborn and tough; qualities I suppose Harry would appreciate, given his... past.

Her eyes suddenly snap to mine. Her gaze strays to Harry a moment and lingers there, then returns to me. She stiffens, eyeing me with a sudden dislike that startles me.

And then I smile.

Blood traitor has it for Harry, has she?

"And he's angry with Hermione," Harry continues, "Because she snogged Victor Krum in fourth year."

I turn back to Harry, who thankfully hasn't seemed to notice mine and Ginny's exchange, and I inch closer to him, leaning forward in my seat to rest my elbows atop my knees.

"Jealousy, is it?" I hum, leaning in as if to share a secret. "It's a shame the two of them are both so stubborn; they should just call it quits and snog each other senseless already. Everyone knows they're just dying to."

Harry laughs, nodding in agreement. I can't help sneaking a glance at the redhead across the room, nor can I help my slight pang of disappointment upon seeing her attention otherwise engaged; on Dean Thomas's lips and tongue, to be specific.

Harry follows my gaze before I can pull it away, and I frown as his smile falls away.

"She's a tramp," I almost say, but stop myself. I wouldn't be doing myself or Draco any favors by turning Harry Potter against me, and insulting his best friend's sister and possible love interest would probably do just that.

"Harry, you're a part of the Slug Club, aren't you?" I ask instead, watching in mild amusement as his face twists into a grimace.

"Unfortunately," he snorts, looking up to give me a short grin. "I've managed to escape most of the meetings, though, but apparently Slughorn's growing more and more impatient with me."

"You're a popular guy, eh?" I tease, smiling as he scoffs derisively.

"Something like that," he murmurs bitterly.

"So who're you going with? To the Christmas party?" I inquire, picking at a loose strand of my cloak. "I imagine loads of girls are trying to reel you in."

"Love potion, apparently," Harry laughs, though there's a hint of fear in his chuckle. "I can thank Fred and George and their owl shipping for that, I suppose.

"But I've no idea who I'm going with, actually," he continues, "Someone… _safe_, hopefully."

"Safe like Romilda Vane?" I laugh, and he grimaces and pushes my shoulder.

"It's not funny!" he hisses, trying to hold back a smile.

"It sort of it, admit it," I smile. "Merlin, how _stupid_ some girls can be… honestly, who in their right mind would be desperate enough to slip someone a love potion?"

"Honestly, I don't think they're _in_ their right minds," Harry says, to which I laugh and nod in agreement. "How'd you know about it, anyway – the party, I mean?"

"I, erm – I got asked, sort of," I say with a chuckle, rubbing my forehead sheepishly. "Blaise Zabini."

I hold back a laugh as Harry almost chokes. "_Zabini_?" he coughs, whirling around to stare at me incredulously. "From Slytherin? Are you bloody mad?"

"He's not that bad," I say defensively, but realize that my words are lost on Harry. "Look, I just wanted to see what the Slug Club's all about; everyone's always talking about it all the time. And, seeing as I haven't got a spectacular enough background or skill set to know firsthand, I saw an opportunity when Blaise asked me and I took it."

"Having a spectacular background isn't all that spectacular," he mutters, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. "Trust me."

"I know what you mean," I want to say, but I don't. Because I'm not Aria Desere; I'm Remy Turner. A muggleborn with a completely boring, safe life. Two _living_ muggle parents, hands completely clean of blood.

"I should be heading off to bed," I say instead, smiling as I stand. "Good luck with your… uh, _moody_ dormmate."

He laughs appreciatively, sending me one last final grin before I head towards the girls' staircase, my smile slipping slowly away.

* * *

><p>I feel almost dizzy in the magically enlarged, tent-like teacher's office, staring up at the metallic gold, silver, green, and red streamers draped over the ceilings and walls. An intricate golden lamp hangs in the center of the room, glittering fairies flitting about it. The chandelier casts a red light over the room, and clouds of pipe smoke waft by, courtesy of a huddle of older warlocks near the entrance.<p>

"Slughorn really goes all out, doesn't he?" I murmur to Blaise, who stands to my right, my arm locked in his.

"Got people to impress," he smirks, looking about at the various famed wizards and witches mingling in the crowd. "He was boasting the Minister of Magic would be attending, but I don't see him. I wonder if disappointment is something a man like Slughorn has got to get used to."

I give a short laugh, sharing an appreciative smile with Blaise before entering the room fully, catching the eyes of a few Gryffindors I recognize and drinking in the way their gazes catch on first me, then the man on my arm. I watch in amusement as their expressions turn to first recognition, surprise, astonishment, then dislike in a matter of seconds.

"Blaise, m'boy!" a voice booms from somewhere to our right. The potbellied figure of Horace Slughorn seems to materialize from the haze of the pipe smoke. "Good of you to come, so very good! And who's this lovely lady you've brought with you?"

His wide, childish eyes turn to me, passing down to my shoes then back up to linger on my face. I resist the urge to squirm under his gaze, instead smiling broadly and extending a gentle hand, which he takes in a firm, almost spastic shake.

"Remy Turner, Professor Slughorn," I introduce myself, inclining my head. "I'm a Gryffindor, but I'm not in your class."

"Well, why ever not?" he inquires, looking astonished as to why anyone would elect not to take his course. "I should have very well liked to have a beauty like you in my classroom!"

"I'm a transfer," I say, almost sheepishly. "Couldn't take O.W.L. classes."

"Ah, pity, pity," he nods, looking mournful for a moment. His expression then returns to its earlier excitement and brightness, like flipping a switch. "Well, so good of you both to come! Glad you both could make it!"

He bustles off before we have the chance to say a word.

"Well, he's…" I trail off, struggling to find a word to accurately describe the man.

"Frighteningly enthusiastic?" Blaise offers with a smirk, and I suppress a smile. He tugs my arm through the crowd, nodding to a dark corner near the back of the room, the entrance of which is draped in brightly colored beads and baubles. "Follow me."

We slip behind the beaded curtain, our figures becoming shrouded in darkness. The area behind the curtain is spacious, and the light of the party leaks through the beads, throwing striped shadows over my plain red dress. I tug down at its long sleeves almost unconsciously to ensure that the Mark si still covered. It's become habit, now.

"So," I start with a tinge of awkwardness, looking up slowly at Blaise. My voice is weak. "Catching up. Right. What's going on with your life?"

"I'm more interested in _yours_," he says meaningfully, staring down at me sharply. His voice is heavy. "You've joined him, haven't you?"

"Joined who?" I ask innocently, smiling roguishly.

"I don't have time for you to play around, Aria," Blaise hisses, grabbing my arm. Left arm. "You're with him, aren't you?"

"So what if I am?" I growl, attempting to yank my arm from his grasp. "Bloody hell! Stop it, Blaise! You're hurting me."

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Aria?" he says in low voice, his grip on my forearm only tightening. "Why in Merlin's name are you_ here_?"

"You asked me here, _remember_?" I spit, pulling myself free.

"Not at the party, you idiot, in _Hogwarts_!"

"Why do you _think_ I'm here, Blaise?" I snarl, glaring at him meaningfully. "You're a smart boy, you can figure it out. But if you –"

I stop suddenly, holding up a finger to hush Blaise's confusion. I look around slowly, my eyes panning the cupboard. My eyes narrow. There – a catch in the light, like a figure moving over a spot of brightness. And when I was talking, there had been a rustle, like the sound of shuffling feet, or maybe even a gasp –

Could it have been...?

Blaise turns slowly, following my gaze, his dark eyes alight with curiosity and maybe even a twinge of fear. "What…? What're you staring at, Aria?"

"I – " I start, but hesitate. It could've been a trick of the light. My eyes and ears playing tricks on me. Yes, that's all it was. My worry getting the better of me. "I thought I saw something, is all. It was – it was nothing."

"Look, Blaise," I turn back to him, my tone serious. "If you keep butting in like this nothing's going to get done. My cover's going to be blown. I know you don't like Him, but getting involved is only going to make everything worse. For everyone."

"I'm not trying to get involved, I'm just bloody confused," he snaps, sounding annoyed at having to admit his lack of knowledge, "We all are – Pansy and Theo, too. Should I tell them, or..."

"Fine, tell them if it keeps them from snooping," I nod, my eyes hardening. "But if Pansy utters a _single_ word to _any_one, if she squeals even a _syllable_, I'll have her head mounted on my wall before she can say _Crucio_."

"Yeah, I got it," Blaise rolls his eyes. "But really, Aria. Be careful. I don't trust him, and you shouldn't either."

"Yeah, I got it," I quote him with a similar roll of my eyes, flashing him a grin in the dark. "Look, we should get out of here before people think we're… well, let's not get into that, shall we?"

He chuckles, parting the beaded curtain for me and letting me through first.

"Always the gentleman," I want to say, but I cut off, my eye drawn to a flash of light purple material, a glimpse of the shimmering ruffle of a dress slipping through the parted bead curtain.

I let out a startled gasp, a rush of fear clattering through me and ricocheting off the walls of my brain.

I look around wildly, trying to track the figure through the crowd, but I lose her when she slips through a huddle of stern-looking witches. I catch a final look at the girl's gently wavy brown hair before she's gone from my view.

Panic grips me. So I hadn't imagined it, seeing something move in the closet, hearing someone gasp. Someone had heard us. Someone _knows._

But before I can turn to Blaise and voice my fears, my attention is drawn to a commotion in the middle of the room. The girl is pushed from my mind. We elbow our way through the crowd, stopping short at the sight that greets us.

It's Draco, dragged into the center of the room by a grubby-looking Argus Filch. My jaw slackens and I feel a rush of anger course through me, both at Filch and the boy he's reprimanding.

"Professor Slughorn," wheezes the caretaker, "I discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party and to have been delayed in setting out. Did you issue him an invitation?"

"All right, I wasn't invited!" Draco says angrily, pulling himself free of Filch's grip. "I was trying to gatecrash, happy?"

"No, I'm not!" I want to bellow, but Filch says it for me, with an odd expression of glee set on his pockmarked face. "You're in trouble, you are! Didn't the headmaster say that nighttime prowling's out, unless you've got permission, didn't he, eh?"

"That's all right, Argus, that's all right," Slughorn says, waving his hand over the crowd as if he were a king issuing a grand proclamation. My eyes meet Draco's, and I try to convey without words the level of furiousness that races through me.

But all at once, Draco's sneering frown is pulled upwards into a slick smile as he thanks Slughorn graciously for his generosity at letting him off the hook and letting him stay for the party. I repress both a snort and the urge to throttle the blond until death.

"I'd like a word with you, Draco," Snape steals the words from me just as they're about to leave my lips, and he exchanges a few curt words with Slughorn before leading an irate Draco out of the hall.

I start to follow, but my arm is caught by a large hand. I whirl, glaring at Blaise, sending him a mental _what?_ Then I turn, looking to where he'd nodded at something behind me. It's Harry, sneaking out of the room in the same direction Severus and Draco had left a few moments ago.

My eyes narrow. Damned boy, always sticking his nose where it doesn't belong.

I slip out of Blaise's grip, weaving my way through the crowd and following Harry out the door. I watch in confusion as he pulls a cloak from his pocket and disappears under it, all traces of him ever being there suddenly wiped clean. I slink silently towards the spot he disappeared at, my hand outstretched.

My fingers close around cloth, and I yank the cloak from him, astonishment flooding me once again as Harry appears before me, looking surprised and perhaps a bit angry.

I hold a finger to my lips in the universal sign of _shut up_, and gesture for him to follow me. I feel a jolt of panic, quite the opposite of the jolt of excitement I see rush through Harry, as we stop before the last classroom in the corridor, hearing voices.

"…cannot afford mistakes, Draco, because if you are expelled – "

"I didn't have anything to do with it, all right?"

"I hope you are telling the truth, because it was both clumsy and foolish. Already you are suspected of having a hand in it."

My fists clench, and I hold my breath, carefully turning my eyes to Harry. He looks enraptured, as if he's uncovered the greatest thing since the discovery of magic. He catches my eye, a grin wide on his face, and he motions for me to come closer to him, then flinging the cloak over the both of us. Somehow I can see through it, though there's a sort of film over my eyes, and I know that to any outsider's eyes, we would be invisible.

"Who suspects me?" Draco asks angrily. "For the last time, I didn't do it, okay? That Bell girl must've had an enemy no one knows about – don't look at me like that! I know what you're doing, I'm not stupid, but it won't work – I can stop you!"

I almost roll my eyes; Draco and his stupid theories that Severus is trying to steal his thunder. His pettiness will be the end of both of us someday. Maybe someday soon.

"Ah…" Severus says after a long pause, "Aunt Bellatrix has been teaching you Occlumency, I see. What thoughts are you trying to conceal from your master, Draco?"

"I'm not trying to conceal anything from _him_, I just don't want _you_ butting in!"

Harry inches closer to the door, pressing his ear against the keyhole.

"So that is why you have been avoiding me this term? You have feared my interference? You realize that, had anybody else failed to come to my office when I had told them repeatedly to be there, Draco –"

"So put me in detention!" jeers Draco, his voice sharp, daring. "Report me to Dumbledore!"

"You know perfectly well that I do not wish to do either of those things," Severus says after another pause.

"You'd better stop telling me to come to your office then!"

"Listen to me," Severus hisses, so lowly I almost don't catch it. Harry and I both lean forward, pressing ourselves into the door. I, like Harry, can't help the curiosity that bites at me. He and I share a secretive smile as our arms brush, and I realize that, of all the people that could be listening in on this conversation, Harry's probably the safest.

Not many people are likely to believe him; he's cried wolf a few too many times.

"I am trying to help you," Severus continues. "I swore to your mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco –"

"Looks like you'll have to break it, then, because I don't need your protection!"

"You seemed all too eager to accept _hers_," Severus spits, implications heavy in his tone. I flinch at my being mentioned, mentally cursing Severus into oblivion.

"Don't bring her into this," Draco jabs, his voice venomous. "It's my job, he gave it to me, and I'm doing it, I've got a plan and it's going to work, it's just taking a bit longer than I thought it would!"

"What's your plan?"

"It's none of your business!"

"If you tell me what you are trying to do, I can assist you –"

"I've got all the assistance I need, thanks, I'm not alone!"

"You were certainly alone tonight, which was foolish in the extreme, wandering the corridors without lookouts or backup, these are elementary mistakes –"

"I would've had Crabbe and Goyle with me if you hadn't put them in detention!"

Their voices have risen steadily, peaking at Draco's almost bellowed last words. I curse them inwardly. Fools are going to get caught – by more than just me and Harry – if they aren't careful. Severus seems to be of the same mind.

"Keep your voice down!" he snaps. "If your friends Crabbe and Goyle plan to pass their Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. this time around, they will need to work a little harder than they are doing at pres –"

"What does it matter?" says Draco. "Defense Against the Drak Arts – it's all just a joke, isn't it, an act? Like any of us need protecting against the Dark Arts –"

I can't help but agree with him there – why should any of us be sitting through lecture after lecture day after day about protecting ourselves from the very forces we're _fighting_ _with_?

"It is an act that is crucial to success, Draco! Where do you think I would have been all these years, if I had not known how to act? Now listen to me! You are being incautious, wandering around at night, getting yourself caught, and if you are placing your reliance in assistants like Crabbe and Goyle –"

"They're not the only ones, I've got other people on my side, better people!"

"Right," Snape drawls, "_Aria_. Who's side do you really think she's on, Draco? She will jump at any chance to please the Dark Lord, she will leave you at the first sign of trouble –"

I almost barge into the room at his words, wand at the ready, but I restrain myself. What the hell does he know, anyway? He wouldn't know loyalty if it cut his heart out and stomped all over it.

"She's loyal to _me_," Draco argues, his tone murderous. "I know what you're up to! You want to steal my glory!"

There's another pause, longer than the others. "You are speaking like a child," Severus says finally, coldly. "I quite understand that your father's capture and imprisonment has upset you, but –"

I gasp, shutting my eyes tightly. The idiot – surely Severus must know that there's a line, and he just crossed it. Surely he knows that if there was one thing that can set Draco off, it would be the mention of his father.

We have barely a second's warning, Draco's angry footfalls, before the door is wrenched open, Draco storming lividly past us, down the hall, and out of sight.

Harry turns to me after Severus passes us and returns to the party, his eyes wide with all that we heard.

* * *

><p>The Gryffindor common room is packed full when I finally return, many hours later. My eyes sweep vacantly over the crowd, tiredness muddying my thoughts. I feel suddenly weighted down by everything – Katie Bell; the mission; Dumbledore; Draco; Severus; Harry.<p>

Another weight is piled on as I meet the wide, calculating eyes of Hermione Granger.

Still another weight is added as I take stock of her dress.

It's ruffled.

It's a light purple.

It's the same one I saw leaving the beaded room.

"Shit," I want to say. But it's caught in my throat.


End file.
